


cataclysms and catalysts

by writing_addict



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: (as in the homunculi did it to their experiments not the cabal doing it to ed), Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Angst, Captivity, Childhood Trauma, Dehumanization, Edward Elric Needs a Hug, Gaslighting, Gen, Human Experimentation, Hurt/Comfort, No Alchemy, OP Edward Elric, Parental Riza Hawkeye, Parental Roy Mustang, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Unreliable Narrator, Vigilantism, at least when ed's narrating, but he's brainwashed to high heavens and terrified of his own powers so it's okay, some high-tech stuff bc superheroes, team mustang (the cabal) are seen as villains, the homunculi are seen as heroes, yeah im back
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:40:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22895812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writing_addict/pseuds/writing_addict
Summary: In a world where humanity is Gifted with powers, the government sanctioned heroes known as the Nefas--Pride, Wrath, Gluttony, Sloth, Envy, Greed, and Lust--are beloved by civilians across the nation of Amestris. Unfortunately, the Nefas are more like bright, shiny distractions than heroes, keeping Amestrians from thinking too much about the strange disappearances of people with dangerously strong powers or the Amestrian military's steady provocation of all its former allies. The dangerous vigilantes called the Cabal, however, are all-too aware of the truth--and all-too determined to stop them.So when the Flame breaks into a government research facility to find and destroy a weapon purportedly capable of crushing entire countries, he expects lasers, maybe serums.He doesn't expect Project Catalyst to be a scared, broken-spirited child locked in a cage.
Relationships: Alphonse Elric & Edward Elric & Team Mustang, Edward Elric & Roy Mustang, Edward Elric & Team Mustang, Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang
Comments: 319
Kudos: 579





	1. locks and chains

**Author's Note:**

> And so with the end of [conflicted by the very air i breathe](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17515493/chapters/41261645) comes the rise of several more parental hurt/comfort fics to take its place! Introducing "catalysts and cataclysms", a superhero AU based in part off of Marissa Meyers' [Renegades Trilogy](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/28421168-renegades)\--which I highly recommend, btw! The Homunculi are the "heroes" of this society, with their powers used in service of the government...by protecting the citizens of Amestris while capturing the strongest on the down-low. The Cabal, aka Team Mustang, are a group of vigilantes led by Roy (a former captive of theirs) who know that the Nefas are corrupt and are trying to bring them down, and have since been painted the villains. Ed is a Cataclysm--a Gifted with extraordinary, overwhelming power capable of destroying entire civilizations--held captive in a cage and kept drugged up so he can be used in their tests, and occasionally as a plaything for the more sadistic Nefas members.
> 
> Most of the fic will follow Ed's recovery, but there will probably be more plot than in conflicted--so brace yourself for fight scenes and fluff mixed in with the sadness!!!

_Blink. Blink._

White. Cold. Tired. Tired. Tired.

Number 3-10 didn’t really know anything else. Just the white room. Just the glass box. Just the metal in his skin, keeping him from hurting anybody like he’d hurt Mommy and Alphonse when he was little-little-little. Just the wires in his veins and his hair and his whole body, making sure that the good guys knew that he was alive and okay and that he couldn’t do anything bad ever-ever-ever again. They hurt, making little pinches of pain-pain-pain run through his body, but it had been days-months-years. He was used to it. And he was helping heroes. He was being good, and that was Very Important.

_Blink. Blink._

White. Cold. Tired. Tired. Tired.

He couldn’t remember how long he’d been in here, but that was okay. He was supposed to be in the box. The box wasn’t home, but it was where he belonged. Home was green-grass-bright-sun-blue-sky. He wasn’t sure if blue and green and sun even existed, though. Maybe it had all been a dream and Mommy and Al were just his imagination. That would be nice. It would mean he hadn’t hurt-hurt-hurt anybody after all. The white-white-white meant that he was in the box, which meant he was safe. He was good. Right?

_Blink. Blink._

White. Cold. Tired. Tired. Tired.

3-10 couldn’t remember. Couldn’t remember. Couldn’t remember. He’d been kept in what the science-people called “stasis” for years-years-years, drifting in and out of sleep and dreams and white-white-white. He knew he was in here for a reason, though. He was a Gifted, they said, and he knew that meant power-power-power. Everyone was a Gifted, though. The nice people who took him to the box after his Gift went all scary and blew up the house and all the thoughts of everyone for miles-miles-miles poured into his head, they were Gifted, too. They were superheroes! Nefas. He knew that was that they were called. The seven…somethings. The good guys. Weren’t they?

_Blink. Blink._

White. Cold. Tired. Tired. Tired.

He hadn’t meant to hurt Mommy and Al. They all said he was something…different. Something scary. A cataclysm, they called him. He knew what that meant, even if he was only four-six-twelve. He was dangerous. His Gift, his tel-e-kin-e-sis, could do scary-scary things, like shatter entire houses and kill innocent people. His mind-reading let him in on every little secret from every single person from the little town of blue-and-green-and-sun. The cuffs on his hands hurt-hurt-hurt, but it was better than hurting other people, than the world being one loud scary sound that he couldn’t get away from no matter how hard he tried. The little beep-beep-beeps from the wires and machines and the voices of the science-people were the only sounds he’d heard since he’d been put in the box, and that was how it should be. It should be. It should be. Wasn’t it?

_Blink. Blink._

White. Cold. Tired. Tired. Tired.

…Black hair. Eyes. Smile.

Unfamiliar. _Who?_

“Almost to the weapon, Hawk.” New voice. Unfamiliar. _Who?_ New-voice-new-face-new-person was smiling, wearing some sort of gold-and-black-and-gray gear that looked like the same material the heroes wore, but he wasn’t a Nefas. 3-10 had met all of them before. This person wasn’t one of them. _Who?_ “It should be in this room, right?” Weapon. Weapon. 3-10 was a weapon. But he was also good. The heroes said so. He was. He was. _He was!_ “Yes, of course I’m being careful, who do you take me for—some kind of amateur? I’m just surprised this thing isn’t more heavily guarded, given…well, everything we’ve heard about it.” A pause. 3-10 tried to focus-focus-focus on the new thing, pleased when the little flares of pain running through his body from his cuffs faded when he thought about something else. “I mean, if it’s that destructive, I would—”

Black hair. Eyes. Smile…smile fading into confusion. Confusion into shock. Shock into horror. “Hawk—Hawk, did you know about—no, no, I’m fine, it’s here, the weapon’s here, it’s just—Hawkeye, the weapon’s a…a person.” 3-10 felt fear-fear-fear and curiosity start to bubble up in his chest, and distantly wished he could move or cry out, but he was in stasis-stasis-stasis and he couldn’t. All he could do was look tiredly at the new person. Right now, he wished the pain-pain-hurt-hurt cuffs were off so he could _seehearthink_ into the new person’s mind and make sure he wasn’t going to get hurt. “Project Catalyst is a _kid._ A little kid.”

3-10 would nod sleepily if his body would let him do anything other than float in silence. He was little. He was a kid. And the science-people called him “Project Catalyst” sometimes, too, when they were looking through their tablets and other shiny tech things. Al had liked shiny tech-things like that. So had…so had his friend. He’d had a friend.

His brow scrunched up, lower lip wobbling a teeny-tiny bit. It didn’t do that much, only when he felt…things. He didn’t feel things much. Something about the wires and tubes they put into him to keep him from getting upset or scared or sad-sad-sad. The last time he did it, Mommy and Al had died and their house had gotten all blown up. It was for his own good. But…but sometimes he wished he could, so he could cry. He had…a friend. With blue-blue-blue eyes and a shiny-shiny smile and—

Did he hurt her, too? Was that why the Nefas put him here? He didn’t remember hurting her. Or much of the explosion he’d caused. He just remembered hearing a loud noise and his mommy crying out in pain, and then—all that kin-e-tic en-er-gy blew out of him and the house was gone-gone-gone.

He had to get out of the box—he had to find his friend and say sorry-sorry-sorry—he—he—

Pressure built up in his chest and he felt a whimper leave his throat as the pain-pain-pain increased. He tried his very hardest to drag his eyes down to his arms—to veins that glowed white as his cuffs went tight-tight-tight and _painful._

The man standing outside made a loud, worried sound, before saying— “Yeah, Hawkeye, I’ve got the device. I’m going to ah…alter the mission.” He tilted his head up toward 3-10 before sighing softly, setting a hand on the glass. 3-10 stared with wide eyes, some of the pressure decreasing as he stared down the new man. “Hold tight, kid, okay? We’ll have you out of there in a second.”

_Blink. Blink._

A click of something pressed against the box. A quiet little buzzing that made his hands hurt-hurt-hurt as white glowed around them.

The walls melted away. 3-10 whimpered as the cold air swept over his body, the cuffs aching even more as he tried to use his powers to keep himself in the air, because he had to stay in stasis-stasis-stasis and be good so the heroes wouldn’t be mad. It didn’t work, the metal around his wrists shocking him with pain-pain-pain and 3-10 flailed in shock as electric jolts shot through his body and made every nerve _hurt._ His whole body hurt, his body crumpling to the ground—

And then wires yanked out of him, dripping bits of blood and strange liquids everywhere, and his eyes went wide—before a wail escaped. The ground was cold-cold-cold and the whole world was getting louder and scary-scary-scary, and he didn’t like it, he didn’t like it, he didn’t like it! His arms and legs hurt and the thin white something he wore was doing nothing to keep him from shivering because it hurt and it was scary and he wanted the box back he didn’t like this he was dangerous dangerous _dangerous_ and what if he hurt somebody, what if he hurt the man because the word was being so loud, _whywhywhy—_

A gentle hand patted his leg, taking away a bit of the pain for a moment. Something trembled through 3-10’s whole body, and his wail cut off abruptly as he stared up at the man who’d just melted the box. “It’s okay, kiddo,” he said, and 3-10 blink-blinked again. “I’m like you, see?” He flicked his other hand, the one not making him feel—less scared and loud and _scared_. Fire pooled in the palm of his hand, and 3-10 sucked in a little breath and stared at it.

Blink. Blink.

_Warm._

When was the last time he’d been warm?

“Yeah, there we go.” The man snapped, and the fire formed a little fluttering heart. His eyes went round as he stared at it, scooting closer to the warm-warm-warm. He hadn’t been warm since he’d—since the—

“Shh-shh-shh, it’s okay,” the man soothed, and 3-10 realized distantly that he’d started crying again, his body and brain confused-confused-confused and overwhelmed by frightening sounds and sensations he wasn’t used to. The floor and the air moving and the soft humming of thoughts trying to get past the pain-pain-pain from the cuffs. It was all too big and too much and he didn’t get it, so his brain decided that crying until someone made it go away-away-away was best. He hadn’t cried in years-years-years. It hurt, but it felt—relieving. “It’s okay. We’re gonna get you out of here, alright?”

Out of—

Out of—

_Out of—_

3-10 shook his head frantically, whimpering louder. If he went out-out-out then he could _hurt_ people. He wasn’t like the nice man. They both had Gifts, but his were too-strong and scary and he didn’t like them, he was a Cat-a-clys-m and he could do awful things, _had_ done awful things. He tried to form words like the nice man was, but he hadn’t tried in years and his mouth didn’t remember how.

The man just made a soft sound, not like the science-people made, all sharp and brittle—it was soft, and nice and warm-warm-warm like the fire in his hand. Instinctively, 3-10 lifted one hand (they were small-small-small next to the nice man’s, he realized distantly, somewhere between interested and confused and scared-scared-scared) and tried to pool his power in his hand again, before dropping it with a pained cry as hurt-hurt-hurt shot through it. _Ow-ow-ow!_

He didn’t like it—he didn’t like it, they hurt and he wanted them off-off-off and—and it _hurt,_ couldn’t the nice man see that it hurt? _Help-help-help,_ he begged, pawing at the strange material the man was wearing, all the sensations too much and too new on his hands and fingers as streaks of glowing white traveled beneath his skin. _Scared-scared-scared!_

“I know, kid, I know. Hold still.” The hand holding fire in it wrapped around the cuff, and 3-10 shied away with a whimper of fear, squirming on the cold white floor—before staring in confusing as the cuff…loosened. The man noticed his stare and chuckled softly. “Heat makes metal expand. I’m a cataclysm-level Gifted, so it’s easier to get the heat without a raging fire—” 3-10 flinched in shock ( _not alone? Not the only one? The good guys, the heroes—lied?)_ and the man seemed to take it as fear, quickly assuring him, “I’m not gonna hurt you, kiddo, just trying to get the nasty metal out, alright?”

No—he couldn’t have it off, he’d hurt everyone—he needed it off, it hurt _him—_ his mind swirled up and down and around in circles as he started to cry again, shaking his head. _No-no-no ow-ow-ow wanna—don’t know—don’t understand—_

The metal thinned into a big ring, too big for his hand, a thin needle drawing out of a little puncture in his skin. Drops of red-red-red dribbled out, and he stared in horror and relief as the other wrist followed suit, before whining and knotting his shaking fingers in his hair as voices started filtering into his mind— _thoughts_. Other people’s thoughts. The science-people, most of them asleep and dreaming, and the guards, knocked out and burned, and a whole city (a whole world) outside, millions-billions-trillions pushing into his mind. It was too much and he was too small to handle his own mind, let alone everyone else’s, and he dug his nails into his scalp with a sob. _Shut-up-shut-up-shut-up—_

_Theory of quantum entanglement—_

_I’m gonna ask Daddy if I can keep the kitty—_

_Need to get cauliflower for tonight’s dinner—_

_Four hours ‘til I can clock out—_

_Ugh, why do people walk so slowly? It’s not like we’re trying to get to class or anything—_

_Shut up, shut up, shut UP—_

_Blind dates suck. Why did I do this again—_

_He stood me up AGAIN? Not this time, fucker—_

_The Cabal—_

_They’re here—_

_THEY HAVE THE WEAPON—_

_SECURE IT, NOW—_

The door slammed open with a clatter that made him wail in terror, and he heard the nice man swear viciously as though from a great distance. His world blinked between white and dark and white and dark and white and dark, his brain swim-swim-swimming through muck as it tried to figure out what it was doing and who was the threat, he could hear yelling but he wasn’t sure if it was his mind or the voices or the outside and the world was too loud-loud-loud and he couldn’t—

_Breathe—_

_Anymore—_

3-10’s veins lit up white-and-gold as he threw his head back and _screamed,_ power erupting out of him—

Before the world went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys! This is an AU I've wanted to do for a while, but I never had time to start. It's based a little bit off of Renegades, and a little bit off of the world I've built for my own novel! Leave a comment and a kudos if you enjoyed it, and I can't wait to see you next week!!! Thanks for reading <3


	2. dreams and waking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Cabal learns some new information about the kid their leader brought back from his latest mission, and it's nothing good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eyyyy, chapter two! Ed doesn't quite wake up just yet, but he does get close. Also, Team Mustang digs up some information about Project Catalyst, and decides on a new name for the kid--you know, since no one knows his actual name, including Ed. Hope you enjoy it!

Roy wished he could say he was used to the Nefas’s atrocities, to their government’s madness in pursuit of power. He wished he could’ve seen this coming. He knew damn well that they were twisted, cruel people who would do anything, hurt anyone to get what they wanted. He’d been their prisoner once, and he’d thought that was the worst condition a human could suffer. He knew better now, though, after finding the boy in the cage. Oh, sure, it looked like a harmless box of the finest explosion-resistant glass, but those wires, those _chains—_ it was a cage, through and through.

So no, he wasn’t used to it. After seeing what they did to this child, he didn’t think he’d ever be used to it. He’d been fighting them for fifteen years, had been the leader of the Cabal for eight, and he still couldn’t comprehend how anyone could possibly be so cruel to a _child._ How someone could keep them plugged up to monitors, drugged until they couldn’t think of anything at all—until they didn’t consider themselves _human._ Because it was damn clear that the kid didn’t think of himself as a person, and hell, his reactions were animalistic enough that Roy would believe it if he didn’t see the agony and hurt in those big gold eyes.

The file hadn’t had anything alluding to the fact that the Amestrian government’s new superweapon was a _child,_ and that made Roy _furious—_ because this kid, who’d probably trusted the stories of the heroes just like the rest of them before he was captured, was just a _thing_ to them. A vessel for incredible power instead of a living, breathing human being who needed love and care and friendship, and was instead put in a cage for what had to be _years._

Roy despised himself even more for considering restraining the kid once he got him back to base, though—because as angry as he was, he was also _scared._ There were no trackers in the kid, sure, but without anything suppressing his powers and with no way to control them, he was volatile. He’d seen his expression go from scared to absolutely distraught when the cuffs were removed, and the explosion he caused—

He wasn’t going to restrain him. He wasn’t going to do that to the poor thing. But that didn’t stop him from watching anxiously as the kid laid in a narrow bed in one of the few open rooms. Their base was secure, locked under Roy’s bar, but he had a distinct feeling that wouldn’t stop the kid if he panicked—not that he cared much when he looked at him. He had no idea what age he was, and he doubted that the boy had any clue either, but he seemed so… _small_ in that bed, lying there in nothing but the thin hospital gown now stained with blood, eyes closed and brow scrunched up as he whimpered in his sleep. “Bastards,” he whispered. “We’ll get ‘em for you, kiddo, don’t you worry.”

Beside him, Riza shook her head slowly, her usual level expression tense with horror and grief. She glanced over at Breda and Fuery as they sorted through the files on Project Catalyst across data-pads and laptops, the latter’s technopath Gift and the former’s naturally brilliant mind picking apart any bit of information they could find on where Catalyst—Roy didn’t know his name, and though it felt cruel to name him after something that put him in a cage, he wasn’t calling the kid a _fucking number—_ came from and why he was there. “Does…does it say how long he was kept there?”

There was a moment of furious whispering as Fuery splayed shimmering blue text in the air and their resident prophet examined it, before Breda swore loudly—and immediately winced as Catalyst squirmed and sniffled in his sleep, delicate fingers flickering white in distress. Roy shot him a _look,_ and he raised his hands apologetically, though his eyes glimmered with rage. “Eleven years, Boss.”

Eleven—

_Eleven—_

The faces around him went rapidly from worry to _rage,_ and Roy knew his was just the same. Over a _decade._ He was in that box for literally all of his formative years, no _wonder_ why he couldn’t process at a normal human level—hell, the goddamn _floor_ was a new sensation to Catalyst, one that had scared him enough that he’d started to cry. Roy resigned himself to a lot more tears and a lot of pretty fire tricks in the future, because— _eleven._ The kid was at least twelve years old, then, but hadn’t had the chance to grow socially or mentally or even _emotionally_ since he was captured. “When,” he gritted out, “did they get him?”

This time, it was Fuery who responded, shimmering lines of blue reflecting off his glasses: “October 3rd, 1903 is the capture date listed for—” he swallowed, visibly disgusted “—Subject 3-10, and the only record of who he was is a birth year. 1899, sir. So he was four, maybe three when they got him depending when his birthday is.”

Damnit. Damnit, damnit, _damnit._ Roy needed to get a handle on his anger _now,_ because once Catalyst became conscious again, he’d undoubtedly freak once he saw the anger swirling across their faces. He took a deep, shaky breath, grief dispelling some of the catastrophic anger building in his chest, before he glanced over at Havoc. “Can you get a read on him?”

The empath grimaced. “Yeah. That’s the easy part, actually; his emotions are so out of control that it’s literally taking all my energy to keep from getting everything.” He shook his head. “I mean, it’s a pretty common side-effect of suppression drugs. Once you come off of them, everything’s more vivid, harder to control, more overwhelming. And after a decade—” Havoc winced, then shook his head, setting a hand on Catalyst’s forehead, murmuring soothingly as the kid made another noise of distress in his sleep. “He doesn’t even know what these feelings are, Boss. He never _learned.”_

 _He never learned how to be human. Never grew up, because he couldn’t, not if he wanted to survive._ Roy’s chest tightened, but he forced his voice not to waver as he said, “What’s he feeling?”

“…Fear. A lot of fear.” Havoc’s face twisted even as he curled a hand gently around Catalyst’s. “And confusion. At least, that’s the best way I can describe it. Like I said, he doesn’t know how to identify what he’s feeling. It’s all a bunch of sensations right now, darkness and cold and hollowness. He’s lost in it all.” He paused, thumb tracing the back of the kid’s hand. “He’s hurting bad, boss. There’s so much he doesn’t know, and he’s starting to realize that he was supposed to be something else.” He finally let go of his hand and shook his head. “Whatever happens, we can’t let him go aboveground, not until he recovers enough to think of himself as a human being.”

“And when will that be?” Riza asked quietly from beside him, her hands twitching like she was itching to go for her blaster. “Not soon, obviously, but do we at least have a ballpark?” She glanced at Falman, a Gifted blessed (or cursed) with a perfect memory and an entirely human knack for sorting through databases and information. If there was anyone in their little team who knew anything about the human response to what was shaping up to look like extreme dehumanization and all sorts of psychological bullshit Roy didn’t know enough about the human brain to deal with, it would be him.

His heart sank when Falman shook his head, gaze fixed tiredly on Catalyst as the hand that had been holding Havoc’s unfolded small, trembling fingers—ones that didn’t glow white this time. The poor kid was seeking comfort, Roy realized, chest aching, before setting his hand gently on the kid’s. Catalyst whimpered, before his index and middle finger curled around Roy’s, the other fingers following suit bit by bit. “No idea. Something this severe…I mean, maybe if we had access to the resources of people not currently classified as enemies of Amestris, then we could find him some sort of specialist that might help, but…”

“We’re the Cabal,” Roy finished tiredly. “And we can’t exactly bring a technically-kidnapped kid to a therapist’s office with our kind of reputation. Especially if it’s—”

“All over the news?” Fuery finished, passing Riza a tablet. She squinted down at the screen, before cursing and showing it to Roy. “Yeah. No way we can take him aboveground.”

Roy’s eyes darted over the headline— _Latest Cabal Strike: Loss Of Life-Saving Research Due To Villain Attack_ —and he scowled. “Life-saving research. Seriously, that’s how they’re spinning it?” Some days he despaired for his country’s intelligence. These P.R. stunts helped keep the Nefas the heroes and the Cabal the villains, even though the roles were…well, not quite reversed. Roy knew damn well that they weren’t heroes, but if anyone were the true villains in this story, it was the Nefas and the government that forged them.

 _Wonder how they’d turn on them if they knew that “life-saving research” was a scared, traumatized child._ He had to keep himself from turning the anger simmering under his skin into fire before he accidentally burned the poor thing’s hand. _Wonder how the Nefas would explain away those scars, or the cuffs, or that lovely drug cocktail that was pumped into him for eleven years?_ “I’m sorry, kiddo,” he whispered, squeezing his hand gently—

And then, to his surprise, Catalyst squeezed _back._

Roy stared in shock at the small hand knotted in his, before giving it two squeezes. “Hey, kiddo,” he whispered. “Are we being too loud?”

There was a thin little whimper, Catalyst turning his head to the side as if to look at him without opening his eyes. His brow furrowed, lower lip wobbling as his eyelids fluttered up a little. _Either trying to wake up…or trying to stay asleep,_ Roy thought, before stiffening as something pressed against his mind—something that wasn’t him. Another consciousness trying to touch his. “Kid?”

That consciousness shuddered, before Roy heard a tiny whisper of, _loud._ And then a miserable, _Where? Who? Scared-scared-scared._

He’d never heard a voice—hell, anyone’s _thoughts—_ sound so fragile and breakable. Like he was trapped somewhere between _thing_ and child and traumatized prisoner, someone who didn’t know who or what or where he was. “Clear out,” he murmured, glancing at the others. “If he’s got the telekinesis, he probably has telepathy. Powerful, too.” Something had freaked the kid out enough to make him start pulling his hair and wailing before the guards even got in, and it had only escalated after the power-suppression cuffs were removed. After eleven years of silence in his head, Catalyst probably had panicked at the voices filling what used to be quiet. “Being this close to so many thoughts at once isn’t going to help.”

A murmur of “yes, boss” and a round of nods went around, before the team got to their feet and slipped out, one by one. Catalyst’s thoughts rose up again, scared and shaky. _Where-where-where—bad? Bad? Don’t understand—bad? Bad._

Roy wasn’t sure whether the kid was referring to himself or his situation, but he squeezed his hand comfortingly anyway. “You’re with people who are gonna keep you safe and away from the guys who hurt you, kiddo. My name’s Roy Mustang,” he added gently. “I run a bar upstairs, and I…I try to help people. As much as I can, anyway.”

Catalyst’s brow furrowed, his tiny fingers twitching in Roy’s hand. _Bad…bad…_ His lower lip wobbled and golden eyes opened slowly, brimming with tears. _Don’t…under—u-underst…and…helped…me?_ His eyes drifted shut again slowly, Roy’s heart twisting with sorrow at the confusion written all over his face.

“Yeah, kiddo. I…I don’t like those bad people who kept you locked up. They’re good at hurting people, and I thought they might be using you to hurt people.” He exhaled roughly and patted the top of the kid’s hand, the little puncture scars between his knuckles making rage flare up in his chest. _The amount of things they had him hooked up to…it’s no wonder he’s so incoherent._ “Instead, I found out they were hurting _you_ and—well, I didn’t want them to do that to you anymore.”

 _But…but hurt people. Cata—clys—m._ Catalyst’s mind was a mess of fear and confusion and _loss_ swirling into Roy’s, as though he knew that something was missing from his own mind and wasn’t sure how to put it back together. He was aware that being locked up like that had been a _bad_ thing, now that he’d been off the drug cocktail the Nefas had pumped into him, but he wasn’t sure how a normal person his age was supposed to think and act. Even if he knew, Roy doubted he _could._

But that fear, not of others, but of yourself—that, Roy knew intimately, both as a Cataclysm and as former military. Having the power to destroy or remake worlds at your fingertips was scary enough, but having that power and not being able to control it? Roy could barely imagine that. The last time he’d lost control had been on a battlefield as a soldier, and he’d nearly gotten thrown in a cage himself before Aunt Chris got to him. If Catalyst had developed his powers as a child (which he most certainly did, since he was four when he was taken) and accidentally lost control, that fear would have kept him caged as much as that bulletproof glass.

“I’m a Cataclysm too,” he said gently, and Catalyst’s grip tightened around his. In surprise or distress, he couldn’t be sure, but the mind linked to his was silent for the moment. “I know what it’s like to be scared of hurting people. To _hurt_ people when you don’t mean to or want to. That’s why I know I can help you, kiddo.”

Silence, for a moment. Roy closed his eyes, only to open them as that voice whispered, _You too?_

Something in his chest twisted painfully. _How long was he alone?_ “Yeah, kid. Me too.”

A rush of _something_ through the kid’s mind, and then— _Tired-tired-tired._

The corner of his mouth tugged up slightly, and he squeezed his hand. “Sleep, then. You’re safe now.”

_Promise?_

“I promise.”

Catalyst’s eyelids drooped until his eyes were completely closed again, the furrow in his brow smoothing out as Roy let out a silent sigh of relief. _Good. He knows we’re not going to hurt him._

_And if you’re still listening, kid, we plan to keep it that way._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's chapter two! Ed's probably going to communicate via telekinesis for a while, so I hope you're ready for lots of stream-of-consciousness angst. Hope you guys liked it! Leave a comment and/or a kudos if you did, and I'll see you next week :D
> 
> Powers:  
> Ed (aka 3-10, Catalyst): telekinesis, telepathy, unknown  
> Roy (aka the Flame): pyrokinesis, lesser levels of air control  
> Riza (aka Hawk): perfect aim, ability to control the trajectory of projectiles, energy blasts (Captain Marvel style)  
> Havoc (aka Maverick): powerful empath, super strength  
> Breda (aka Knight, i.e. the chess piece): foresight, prophetic visions  
> Fuery (aka Byte): technopathy, enhanced senses  
> Falman (aka Archive): perfect memory


	3. sounds and silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 3-10 likes his new name and his new guardians. He absolutely does not like how loud his mind is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about this chapter being so late! I had a hard time with this one for some reason...but I'm back on track now!
> 
> Also I was so tempted to call this chapter "Sound of Silence", y'all don't even KNOW.

3-10 was in the new room for three days before he learned he had a new name. The nice people—and they _were_ nice, he could sense it in their minds, that they really were doing this to keep him safe-safe-safe and not just faking like the science-people—got sad and upset whenever he tried to point out that he was 3-10, had been 3-10 for years-years-years and even if he’d had a name before that, he wasn’t sure he wanted it. They were nice-nice-nice about that too, and said that it was okay if he didn’t want his old name, but they didn’t want him to be a number either because that was de-hum-an-i-zing.

So 3-10 became Catalyst, and he was still undecided on if it was better than being 3-10, but he liked it, and his head didn’t feel so foggy that he wasn’t sure whether he really like-like-liked it or he didn’t. But his head got loud-loud-loud, too, and he didn’t like _that._ He tried to figure out how to ask for the cuffs back (but without the sharp-sharp-pain-pain), but it became pretty clear that the nice people weren’t going to give them to him. Which was bad-bad-bad, because now 3-10-Catalyst ( _Catalyst, Catalyst, Catalyst)_ could _hurt_ them, and he tried to tell them as much, but it turned into him crying again and—and—

And they _held_ him when he did that. Not in a box or a cage, but in their arms. Mostly it was the nice-nice-nice man who did it, and he’d make pretty fire-shapes until Catalyst could focus on those and the crackly sounds they made and not the noise-noise-noise in his head. Sometimes it was the lady with pretty white-gold hair. He knew it wasn’t gold-gold-gold, because it was too pale, too light, and his hair was called “gold” and it was darker than hers. But he liked her. She was nice, too. She sometimes spoke in a voice that sounded not…like speaking at all, but was pretty and sort of—bounced, and he wasn’t sure about words-words-words, but the sound made his head feel less loud.

Today, it was one of the other nice people—the one with dark hair and what Catalyst knew were called glasses. Some of the science-people had glasses, but that wasn’t where he knew them from. Maybe the little town of blue-and-green-and-sun had someone with glasses, but…he couldn’t _remember._ Didn’t remember anything except _loud noise I’m scared Mommy help no no NO—_

Catalyst whimpered, trying to dig his head out of the memory. Glasses-man was talking. He had to focus-focus-focus. He could do that. He could be good, he could be! He wasn’t sure how, but he could learn, he was so sure that he could learn and then be something instead of this—who-he-was-now, because who-he-was-now hurt lots and got confused easily and didn’t know how to do lots of things. He hadn’t dared tried walking (the nice man and lady looked very upset with how stick-like his arms and legs were, and the man with hair that was the color of the box-room said it was probably because he hadn’t eaten enough—but the Nefas had fed him through those needles. Wasn’t that enough? What was normal eating even like?), and he didn’t talk out-loud (using his head was much-much-much easier), but—but the voices were still _loud._ He didn’t want them to be loud! He wanted them to _shut up!_

They didn’t, though, and that was what Glasses-Man was trying to teach how to do, to shut them _up-up-up._ Catalyst was trying his hardest to pay attention and _focus,_ because focusing on things like this was how you learned them, right? But Catalyst—Catalyst kept muddling up the words Glasses-Man was saying with the voices in his head, and everything kept getting weirder and wrong-er and he didn’t realize that he was crying until Glasses-Man stopped talking and his thoughts got all worried.

 _Oh—oh, god, was it something I said? Poor kid’s probably too overwhelmed to know what I’m talking about, what am I saying, of_ course _he is, he was kept in a BOX for ELEVEN YEARS. Don’t be such an idiot, Fuery!_

He picked out the words from the mess of voices and sounds and thoughts and _too much too loud no-no-no;_ he’d gotten a tiny bit better at that over the past few days—finding one mind in the millions that got in his stupid bad head and latching onto it. The nice man was sad but determined and full of some sort of big, warm emotion that encompassed the entire group. The white-gold lady was also sad and determined and warm, but more—sens-i-ble. The man with hair like the box-room thought like a science-person, but much nicer. The one who introduced Catalyst to the squishy thing he called Play-Dough, the one who liked that game with the black-and-white squares, his thoughts were all very log-i-cal and level, and the one who could read emotions like Catalyst read minds thought about girls a lot, but even more about the group.

This one, Glasses-Man—Fuery? Worried lots. About everyone. But he was nice to everyone, too, and very friendly, and sometimes Catalyst wondered if he (or any of the group, really) would hold him if he asked, because he got cold really easily and after so long of feeling nothing but cold, he wanted _warm._ He hadn’t been warm since he was little-little-little, and—and he wanted it!

But the Glasses-Man was, at least from what Catalyst had seen in their minds, closest to his age. He still didn’t quite know what that was ( _four-six-twelve—bigger than eleven, said I was in the box for eleven years, so it has to be bigger than eleven),_ but so far it wasn’t a very good one. Something-bigger-than-eleven seemed to be mostly hurt, and he didn’t want the Glasses-Man—Fuery? To be hurt. He was too good a person for that.

He wiped valiantly at his tears, his head throbbing, little spike-pulses of pain-pain-pain stabbing through it as the city (outside, above, far far away) crowded itself into his brain—which was much too small to hold that many other brains in it, he thought, and whoever decided he should have these bad bad Gifts should have given it to someone with a bigger brain, or nobody at all—before reaching out and pawing at Glasses-Man-Fuery. His fingers were still shaky and _weird,_ and sometimes glowed white like his veins when he used his Gift, but he tried very, _very_ hard not to. Even if he kept floating random things across the room or turning them into angry twisty things when everything got too loud (which was a lot). Grabbing things was hard, but he managed a clumsy pat of Fuery’s hand.

 _It’s okay,_ he tried to tell him. _Brain is loud. Stupid. Lost your words. Not your fault-fault-fault._ It was Catalyst’s screw-up, not his. He was trying to help, but Catalyst was too weak and weird and _messed up-up-up_ to listen. _No…sad. Worried?_ He furrowed his brow before letting out another whimper as the movement sent the voices cascading through, the sheets of the thing he was lying on ( _a bed, dummy,_ a voice he rarely heard whispered, one that came from within him rather than _outside)_ trembling and twisting up as his Gift flared. _Sorry, sorry, sorrysorrysorry—_

“Hey, hey, no—it’s okay!” A warm hand closed gently over his thin, cold one, and Catalyst jerked back with a whine, tears welling up even as the sheets settled back down and his fingertips stopped glowing. Fuery gave him a small smile. “You’re _fine,_ Catalyst, seriously. It took me years to be able to silence my technopath Gift, and that wasn’t on nearly the scale that you’re facing. You’re gonna struggle a little—a lot, even, and it’s _okay.”_

It was—okay? To mess up? That couldn’t be right. He had faint-faint-faint memories of the Nefas shouting at each other when they’d storm through his hall, snapping at each other for messing up, ruining everything, derailing their something-or-other. Catalyst—3-10, then—had watched them through sleepy, distant eyes, which would usually make the one with spiky green hair (though it didn’t look like the green in Catalyst’s distant memories of blue-and-green-and-sun) turn on him and start saying words he didn’t understand, which made him upset, which made the green-hair-one start laughing at him.

…That wasn’t how heroes were supposed to act-act-act, was it? The Nefas were supposed to be the good guys, that was why they _took_ him, because he did something bad-bad-bad and killed the two people who he loved more than anything ( _but my friend, did I kill my friend, where is she, where is she?)._ But was it really to protect people—to protect him? Or were they hurting him—

No. They’d done bad things and had bad days, but they had to be good-good-good. Otherwise—otherwise _everything_ was a lie and he’d been hurting for so long just because they wanted him to. Or needed him to. Or—

 _I don’t like this anymore,_ he thought mournfully—to himself, not to Fuery. _I don’t wanna think about it anymore._

“You know, we don’t have to keep working on it right now if you don’t want to,” Fuery suggested, drawing him back to his conversation despite the echoing in his head. Catalyst debated the merits of digging his nails into his skin to try and draw himself out of the mess-mess-mess, but he decided against it; it all hurt anyways, and pain wouldn’t shock him out of it. Plus, then the nice man— _Roy,_ he remembered at last _—_ would be very sad and given him a gentle Talk about “not hurting ourselves” and Catalyst would half want to beg for a hug and half want to throw the light-thing (lamp?) at the bedside table at his head, because _he doesn’t know what it’s like, how can he tell me not to try and fix it, it’s not fair!_

Fuery knew what it was like, though, because he could hear and feel and ac—access? anything that ran off of electricity, and since they were apparently under a big city, that was a lot of things. _I kept causing shutdowns because I couldn’t escape my own head,_ he explained to Catalyst once. _So you’re doing a lot better than I was! You haven’t even blown up anything here yet!_

He’d come close once or twice, he thought miserably. He was very, very bad at keeping control of his Gift; it all hurt too much and when things got loud, he got scared-scared-scared and people got hurt or things got destroyed and—

All he’d done here was cause pillow-cyclones, thankfully. He hadn’t blown anything up. Hopefully he’d be able to continue that sort-of streak. He didn’t want to break anything or hurt-hurt-hurt anyone ever again—he didn’t want to, he didn’t want to, he didn’t want to—

_Ugh, I hate horror movies. Why am I even here?_

_Maybe I should ask her to go to the movie with me…_

_Need to remember to grab zucchini on the way home—_

_Fire extinguisher, fire extinguisher, FIRE—_

He clutched at his head as the voices started pouring in again, his shoulders shaking as he let out a helpless whine. Fuery was talking again, but he couldn’t hear him, he couldn’t focus, the world was too big and too loud and he felt so very small, much littler than more-than-eleven, and yet so much older and so much more _tired—_

_Anya? Anya, no—she can’t die, she—_

_I wish I was a superhero like them!_

_Ooh, you’re cute, swipe right—_

_If we lose one more game, coach is gonna kill me…_

_CATALYST. LISTEN._

He jerked back at the last voice, whimpering even as arms wound around him, hands gently grabbing his wrists.

 _Focus. Breathe._ Fuery didn’t say a word aloud, but he made his mind… _louder,_ and Catalyst latched onto it with a sob. _Don’t like-like-like it, wanna go—go—_ Home-home-home, some very small, very unfamiliar part of him whispered, but he didn’t _have_ a home and he barely knew what a home _was. Latch on to one mind, okay? It doesn’t have to be mine, but find one person and focus in on them until you can drown the rest out. I know you can do it._

Find—find _one—_ he had to do it, he had to be brave and smart and he had to _focus_ because everything was _loud-loud-loud_ and too _much_ , the blankets the bed the light the _air,_ and he sobbed again as he reached for the mind that had kept him safe when he got out of the cage. _Scared-scared-scared—too-big-too-loud-too-much!_

Mustang’s mind did a little surprised _jolt,_ and Catalyst cried even harder _(made him mad going to lock me out make it louder make it STOP)_ before gasping, breath coming in wheezing, rasping inhales as a blast of _worry_ hit him. Not anger. Not fear (at least, not of him, of what he could do, had done, might _still_ do).

_What’s going on, kiddo? I’m coming down right now, don’t worry—was it a nightmare?_

Calm questions. Gentle-gentle-gentle. Catalyst clung to them gratefully, trying to bury himself in the familiar consciousness rather than dissolving into a thousand pieces over and over again. It sort-of worked, the rest of the world fading into a faint buzzing rather than a scream, but he couldn’t stop crying-crying- _crying_ and he couldn’t even think to answer the questions beyond _LOUD-LOUD-LOUD HELP-HELP-HELP._

Hands on his shoulders. Arms around him. Not Fuery’s arms anymore—the shoulders he pressed his face into were broader, the hands that moved to rub his back filled with some kind of internal heat that he no other human had. He folded himself up smaller-smaller-smaller and cried with relief, clinging to him. _Safe-safe-safe? Loud, loud, don’t like it!_

“I know, kiddo.” The hearth-like ( _what’s a hearth, how do I know-know-know, I don’t understand)_ warmth in his voice made something in him relax, and Catalyst wound his fingers tightly in his shirt. He wasn’t wearing that strange fabric anymore, that something that was half-tough and half-not, but it was easier to hold onto him and he was grateful for that. “It’s overwhelming, isn’t it? Here, let me—”

Something soft slipped over his ears, and Catalyst jolted with a squeak before—the voices quieted. Not much, but a bit. He heard Fuery suck in a breath, sounding surprised, before he heard Mustang laugh quietly. “Dug these out from when we recruited Havoc. Telepathy and empathy Gifts are pretty similar, so I thought it might work.” A hand gently ruffled his hair, and he stared up at Mustang with wide eyes. “Is it quieter now?”

Catalyst hesitated, reached out, and…

The voices were stil there. But they weren’t screaming now.

He could…he could choose whether he wanted to hear them or not.

His eyes filled with tears of relief, and he nodded furiously, burying his face in Mustang’s chest again. He could hear their thoughts— _not a permanent solution, have to train him, have to help him, can’t let him rely on these forever—_ but he didn’t _care._

For the first time in his life, he had _quiet_ without _pain,_ and that was a greater gift than he ever could have asked for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it! This chapter was kind of all over the place, but hey, Ed's not drowning in his own head anymore. The little muffler Roy gave him looks like a set of earmuffs, and Fuery and Breda developed it for when Havoc's powers go haywire, so just--picture this tiny Ed with a pair of fluffy earmuffs, and bask in the cute! Leave a comment and/or a kudos if you enjoyed it, and I'll see you next week! Thanks for reading <3


	4. softness and safety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy reflects on what he's learned about the kid these past three weeks. Catalyst surprises him--and he realizes it's only the first of many expectations the kid is going to defy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about this one being so late! Being trapped inside has really taken it out of me. I have so much free time, but absolutely no will to move, much less churn out new chapters. I'll be moving updates on this fic to Fridays, though, and try to get my mojo back! I'm not going to let COVID-19 drain my passion as well as my freedom!
> 
> That being said, I hope everyone stays safe, stays indoors, and stays as healthy as possible. Please be safe in these trying times, no matter what age you are and no matter what situation you're in. Hopefully we'll be able to get through this safely <3

Roy’s life tended to fall squarely in good news vs. bad news. Especially when it came to Catalyst, who, as soon as he figured out something good or something he liked, would immediately reveal some terrible atrocity done to that he didn’t even realize _was_ an atrocity. He just…accepted it as fact. Small, ordinary things that most kids had or needed or—well, Roy didn’t really know anything about childhood, but he knew that Catalyst wasn’t supposed to freeze so quickly. He wasn’t sure if that susceptibility to cold was an effect of his powers or a byproduct of being kept in a containment cage for _over a decade,_ but the look of awe on the kid’s face when he was offered an extra blanket was physically painful.

Example:

Good news: the kid just really, really liked being warm, which meant he was easy to comfort.

Bad news: the kid had been cold for eleven years, and had no problem thinking something to that effect at all of them, unaware of the immediate leap to _murderous rage_ Roy found himself making.

Catalyst was…easy to please, really, and easy to entertain. Now that the mufflers were on, it was easier to teach him little tricks to control his powers, but outside of that, he seemed to be a generally happy kid. Shy, yes, clingy, very, anxious, yes to the point where _Roy_ felt like he was dying—but happy, and starved for affection. Rehabilitating him was proving to be both easy and a challenge, because Catalyst was eager to accept whatever affection he was offered and something of a quick-study as well, but he was also—well, _Catalyst._ The very confused, very lost little kid (maybe not that little, but if Fuery hadn’t found his records Roy would’ve thought he was ten at _most)_ who didn’t know how to say no or protect himself and didn’t think he was allowed to.

Getting him to trust them, to get acclimated to being around people again, that was the easy part. Getting Catalyst to look at himself as a human being, much less a teenager with near-unmatched power was proving to be a _nightmare._ It was like the Nefas had trained him into thinking that he was just a vessel for his Gift instead of the one it belong to, like they’d taken advantage of his drugged-up mind to ensure that he stayed young and fragile and impressionable.

Maybe that was why they starved him of so much affection, he thought, suddenly terrified. Maybe they planned to do this themselves—to eventually take him out of what Catalyst called “the box” and his Cabal referred to as a _cage,_ to shower him with affection and gifts until he’d use them all for their purposes and never think twice, too desperate for those small kindnesses and to avoid the box to ever think of turning on them. They were certainly devious enough, and from the little flickers of memory Catalyst sometimes accidentally passed through to them, Envy had liked tormenting him in those small ways the most, turning down the box’s temperature, making the needles dig in more, making the machines take more blood until Catalyst nearly died and the scientists came to check on him—and they were by far the cruelest and most manipulative of the false heroes.

He hoped not. He knew they wouldn’t hesitate to cross even the worst of lines, to stray from villains to monsters entirely, but god, he hoped their plan wasn’t to manipulate Catalyst into their hold. It was one thing—one horrible, cruel, merciless thing to keep a kidnapped, traumatized child drugged and trapped for years. It was entirely another—it was even _worse—_ to take advantage of that and turn Project Catalyst’s longing for kindness and affection and care against him.

It was just— _ugh._ Who _did_ that?

_Probably the same people who kidnapped a toddler for having a powerful Gift, shoved him in a cage, and proceeded to spend the next decade keeping him drugged up to the point where he can’t tell which way is up._ He scowled, even as he gently wove the kid’s hair into a loose braid, Catalyst humming nonsense as he did so. It was _long,_ a good inch past his waist, further proving that they probably hadn’t opened that cage in the entire time he’d been locked up. They’d just…observed. They’d _watched_ as what Roy was sure would’ve been a brilliant mind and spirit were washed into something colorless and empty.

They’d _caused_ it.

The Nefas had a long, long list of crimes to answer for, as did the government that backed them, but this—this just proved to Roy that they couldn’t be forgiven, that even the grunt workers and scientists couldn’t be spared. They could’ve tried to do something, anything—maybe not letting him out, not if they were at risk or their families or something (he didn’t want to believe that people would _volunteer_ to use a tiny child as a superweapon), but they could’ve—could’ve made the box a little warmer, or let him out to walk around for ten minutes or _something._

But they didn’t. They didn’t, and Catalyst didn’t know that was _wrong,_ didn’t know why Roy and the rest were upset about it. He was starting to figure out that he shouldn’t have been put in the box, but he didn’t seem angry, or even _sad,_ just…matter-of-fact. That was worse, Roy thought as he tied off the braid, than sadness. It meant Catalyst didn’t _understand,_ and Roy wasn’t sure he’d ever would. Not after how long he’d been kept away from the world, from life, from _growth._

It had also only been a few weeks, he reminded himself firmly as Catalyst’s veins flickered white under his skin, and the end of his braid drifted up, caught in some nonexistent breeze. Less than a month. That he’d improved enough to even recognize that he shouldn’t have been in there was a miracle after so long, and that he trusted them at all was a gift. They had time. They were playing the long con, after all, and Roy was going to keep the kid safe.

…He’d have to figure out a way to get him to take the mufflers off, though. If he relied too much on those, he’d never try to actually use his Gift. They were meant to be more like training wheels on a bike than anything else, dimming the power so the wearer could get the basics—but with Catalyst’s Cataclysm-level Gift, the mufflers were the only thing that kept him from being the nervous, teary, desperate wreck from the first week and a half.

“I bet you’re gonna be a little handful once you get your mojo back, though, huh?” he murmured, and Catalyst twisted on the bed to look up at him, golden eyes bright—dazed, but bright. He still had trouble focusing in on things, his eyes tending to skate from one thing to the next or just…zone out completely. But he was getting better at that, too, especially with him, Havoc, and Riza. The rest were a struggle, but he had a distinct feeling they were the favorites. He grinned wryly down at the kid, who blinked slowly before pressing small fingertips to his cheek and poking warily at him. Roy patiently allowed the touch—Catalyst was proving to be something of a tactile learner, which made sense, given how many sensations he wasn’t used to. “Yeah, it’s just me. I haven’t gone anywhere.”

Catalyst blinked again, before a slow smile crossed his face and his other hand batted gently at Roy’s other cheek. He chuckled before he could help himself, shaking his head in amusement. “You having fun, kiddo?”

Catalyst’s smile widened and he beamed up at Roy, cold fingers patting at his jaw. _Scratchy!_ that small voice filtered into his head, a little stronger than it was a couple weeks ago. _Scratch scratch scratch._ Roy tried not to wince at how cold those tiny fingers were. No wonder the kid craved warmth so much. He could barely retain his own. _Pri…cactus!_

Cactus? What the— _oh._ Roy burst out laughing, Catalyst squeaking in alarm at the sudden noise. He managed to quiet himself as the kid jolted away, eyes wide and nervous and fingers flickering white, shaking his head. “Hey, hey, it’s okay, bud,” he soothed, ruffling his hair. “I just forgot to shave today, and I didn’t realize until now. That’s what the scratchiness is.” The nervousness didn’t fade from Catalyst’s face, but he didn’t look quite so scared. “A cactus, huh? Has Falman been showing you the encyclopedias again?”

Catalyst nodded, chewing on his sleeve as he brought his hands up to his face. _Pictures,_ he said simply. _Nice._

That was another thing about the kid—he didn’t talk much, and never out loud. Usually Roy got bursts of feelings and occasional memories, bits of sensations and mental pictures he used to cobble together what Catalyst needed or what he was feeling. He’d been using words more, bit by bit. Simple ones, generally, which Roy couldn’t really blame him for; he was in no position to have picked up how people spoke or even develop speech like a normal kid beyond the age of four. But he mostly got short sentences, occasionally a couple words thrown in, and noises, but Catalyst…Catalyst had yet to speak out loud.

On one hand, this was good. It meant that he was trusting his Gift a little more, and that he felt safe enough to communicate with it. On the other…Roy was starting to wonder if it was a sign of some deeper issue, if the kid was mute after what had been done to him, if it was psychological or physical or just that he didn’t know how to anymore. _Times like these, it would help_ not _to be the bad guys,_ he thought dryly as Catalyst’s attention slid from him to rest of the room. They’d been trying to prompt him to pick some kind of decorations or _something,_ since they’d essentially repurposed their former infirmary as his bedroom, but…well, the kid barely seemed to understand what they meant, and so the room stayed the same pale green and white Fuery had suggested when they first set up base.

_Soft._

Roy blinked at the timid, hesitant word, looking down to see a small, cold hand set over his wrist. Catalyst was still chewing softly on his sleeve, but his gaze seemed clear, focused— _alive. Want soft,_ he elaborated, twisting the fabric of Roy’s jacket between his thumb and forefinger. _Warm-warm-warm. Soft. Want. Soft?_

Oh—

_Oh._

Pride, strange and unfamiliar yet entirely _welcome,_ bubbled up in Roy’s chest, bright and golden and so sharp and strong it was almost painful. He was _asking_ for something. Catalyst never asked for _anything,_ letting himself be maneuvered and spoken at and only protesting when he was in pain or when he couldn’t retreat into his own head. He was scarily compliant, desperate to be given even the slightest of kindnesses. Roy had never heard him ask for _anything_ beyond _am I safe, am I here, can I trust you._

And here he was, asking for something for _himself._ Not because of anyone else, or because he thought they wanted him to have it. Because _he wanted it._

Maybe it wasn’t as big a step as Catalyst talking out loud, or taking the mufflers off, but it was something in the right direction. It meant progress. It meant he was healing. It meant—it meant the Nefas hadn’t broken this kid after all.

It meant he was stronger than they were expected him to be—and Roy found himself completely, utterly certain that those monsters would rue the day they laid eyes on him. _Villains create their own downfall,_ he reminded himself, staring up at the wary, wide-eyed kid still waiting for his response. _And I think the Nefas…_ A slow grin crossed his face. _The Nefas just handed us the key to theirs._

“Of course, kiddo,” he soothed, and watched that small face brighten as Roy draped his coat around him, surrounding him in warmth and safety. “We can get you some big fluffy blankets and pillows, too. How’s that sound?”

He let out an _oof_ a moment later as Catalyst threw himself at him, small hands that no longer felt quite so cold wrapping tightly around his shoulders as he huddled up to his chest. _Thankyouthankyouthankyou!_ poured into his mind as Catalyst buried his face in his shoulder, no longer shivering. _Thankyouthankyou, stay-stay-stay._

Something in him softened, and he rubbed his back slowly. “Of course,” he whispered, “as long as you need.”

And if the room was a little blurry and his eyes a little hot, well, he could just pretend it was nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed it! If you didn't read my note above, please be advised: updates on this fic are now on Fridays! Please stay safe, stay healthy, and be considerate of others' health; even if you aren't one of the populations at risk, the best thing you can do is follow the social-distancing policy to protect those who are. On a lighter note, you can expect some new fics from me (and updates on old ones) during this time! I have a few fun AUs I think y'all will like!
> 
> As always, leave a comment and/or a kudos if you enjoyed it, and I'll see you next week <3 All my love!


	5. mayhem and mistakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catalyst was doing good. He was being good.
> 
> He isn't sure what went wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eyyyyyy, back on track with my updates! this one was a little slow to start, but i finally got it under control and here we are! it was fun to write; i think it showed more of the scope of what happened to ed, but in...little things. things he just didn't get to learn, or remember, or understand because he was trapped for so long. anyways, what i'm saying is "prepare for angst". hope you enjoy it!

They were all upset, and Catalyst didn’t know why.

He’d—he’d been doing _so good._ They were all being nice to him, and he figured that as long as he stayed little and quiet and didn’t ask for too much, it would stay that way. It wasn’t even that hard, either, to be small and to be silent and to be good so they would keep being nice. Sometimes he wanted to cry, or scream, or throw something, but he didn’t, because that was not good-good-good. It was _bad-bad-bad._ So he stopped telling them when he was upset, and he learned to cry into his pillow and how to be quiet so they’d keep being nice (he didn’t wanna go back-back-back, not now that he had the muff-le-r, the box was cold-cold-cold and he didn’t like all the pinch-y, hurt-y things), and he made sure to knock pillows off his bed instead of throwing something when he felt like he wanted to be— _mad._

He was good, he was good, he was _good_ but they were freaking out-out-out anyways and Catalyst didn’t know what to do, he wanted to curl up and cry, he wanted to be _small_ and he wanted to be held but the anger radiating from them was too much-much-much and—

He could barely even remember how this had _happened._ How they’d gotten upset in the first place. They’d been—they’d been using the pretty books with the blank pictures, the ones that he could scribble in and have no one care about how bad-bad-bad his scribbles looked ( _Want me to hang these on the fridge, love?_ he remembered a gentle voice whispering, remembered Mommy’s soft hands and big red magnets that stuck his pictures on a white box— _boxboxboxbox)._ Hawkeye had been with him today, helping him pick out colors for what he was coloring. She’d been smiling, and praising him when he picked out the blue and green (they were the only colors he really _knew,_ and they were pretty, anyways) to color something he recognized from the big encyclopedia with all the picture.

It was a dans…dance…dancer in a fluffy-looking skirt, and he’d been trying to figure out whether to make it blue or green-green-green (sky or grass or trees or water) when his eyes landed on another color-stick (cray..on?) that was another familiar shade.

It was—

It was _sun-sun-sun._ It was a color Catalyst hadn’t seen in years, not nearly as clearly as that, anyway. His hair sort of looked like it, and so did Hawkeye’s, but _that_ color was bright and fun and happy and he _wanted_ it. He had pointed to it excitedly, hope-hope-hope sparking in his chest like the little fireworks Mustang made dance across his fingers when he got scared and couldn’t hide it in time, and said, _Sun!_ to Hawkeye, something bright and warm glowing inside him at the pretty color. He couldn’t quite reach it, trying to float it over to himself, but his powers were flickering on and off and he couldn’t work them out. _Give sun, please?_ he pleaded, opening and closing his fingers at it like that might make it appear in his hands.

Hawkeye…Hawkeye looked _confused,_ and then a little scared-scared-scared. Catalyst wasn’t sure why—it wasn’t like he was asking for the real-real-real sun, just the color-stick-crayon-thing. He let out a little whine of frustration, trying to lean forward to grab it, but the other two crayons rolled off his little bed and onto the rug, and he nearly burst into tears at the loss of the blue-blue-blue and green. She picked them up, but she still seemed upset. “I…what do you mean, starshine?”

Catalyst furrowed his brow and reached for the crayons again, confused. _Give sun,_ he begged, fingertips flickering white as he called on his Gift again, trying to float the crayon into his hand. _For picture. Want. Please?_ He didn’t understand why she seemed so upset. She’d given him the rest of the crayons, right? So why couldn’t he have the sun crayon?

Was it bad? Was the sun color bad? Was he going to get put in the box again? He didn’t want to go back—he knew it was probably safer, but it hurt-hurt-hurt and it was why he was like this and he probably wasn’t supposed to be like this, he didn’t want to go back, he didn’t want to, he _didn’t!_ But he wanted the crayon, too—which one was more important? People were supposed to be able to know which thing was more important, _why couldn’t he figure out which was more important,_ he was being bad-bad-bad and if he didn’t figure out what they wanted him to do, he wouldn’t be able to stop-stop-stop.

 _Please?_ he tried again, swallowing around a sob. _Don’t cry. Don’t cry._ They’d stop being nice to him if he started crying. They’d laugh. The scary Nefas person with green hair laughed whenever he cried in the box. He wasn’t in-in-in the box anymore, but what if these people put him back? He didn’t think they’d put him back, but what if they did? _No box? Crayon? Please?_

Slowly, Hawkeye’s fingers unfolded, gently setting the crayons in his lap. Ed nearly cried with relief despite his best efforts not to, staring at her warily for a moment before grabbing the sun-crayon and starting to slowly color in one of the shapes. _Not going back-back-back,_ he assured himself quietly. He’d been good. He’d politely asked for the sun crayon, and he’d gotten it, and he hadn’t cried-cried-cried. They still liked him. He was still safe. And most importantly (was it important?), he could finish coloring his picture.

He’d been working with the crayon for…he didn’t know how long (he was very-very-very bad with time—minutes-and-hours-and-seconds were confusing, why were there so many parts to time?), but it probably wasn’t very long because he’d only filled in a teeny-tiny part of the drawing before Hawkeye quietly asked, “Do you know what color that is, Catalyst?”

Catalyst tilted his head, bewildered. That was a silly question. It was _sun._ Like his hair and eyes, but a little brighter. Like the big light circle in the sky. Grass was green, sky was blue, and his hair and eyes were sun. That was how it worked. He nodded, and held it up, and said, _Sun._

Something horrible and pained filled her eyes, and he recoiled when she shook her head and quietly said, “No, starshine, that’s…that’s yellow. The sun is yellow. That crayon is yellow.” Her eyes looked very shiny-shiny-shiny, but Catalyst hadn’t quite noticed, too busy examining the crayon with renewed interest until he found the little black letters on the side. Sure enough, when he sounded them out in his head, they said _yellow._ He had a yellow crayon. He had a new color!

He clutched it determinedly in one hand, inspecting it, before returning to his picture with a quiet hum. That meant his hair and eyes were yellow, too, weren’t they? He brightened a little—yellow could be so many things! There was so much yellow, and so much more made sense when it was yellow and not “sun” and—

Hawkeye was leaving the room. Why was she leaving the room?

He reached after her with a whimper, but she didn’t seem to notice. He cast his Gift out—and was met with a terrifying wall of _rage-rage-rage,_ big and loud and _cold,_ like the box if the box-box-box was stuck in that thing Catalyst read about in the encyclopedia Falman got him, the thing where snow fell all around you and you were stuck and cold and crushed to death—

A wail burst from his throat before he could stop it, and then he was curled underneath the covers, crying and crying and crying as the crayons and the coloring book fell off of his bed. He pulled the sheets tighter around him, sobbing into them as white flickered and his Gift skritch-scratched at the world around him. Shadows flickered overhead, the light changing as a wind he knew he was creating swirled around the room and sent pillows and beanbags and all the soft things they’d been nice enough to give him flying. He was trapped in a cyclone of his own Gift, his ow power, his own making, and yet it felt like he was drowning him, like he _couldn’t escape._

Something shattered above him, and he cried even harder, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes as the whirling fury he’d created picked up-up-up. _Now you’ve done it,_ some cold voice hissed, _now you’ve broken something they gave you, what an awful, awful person you are. This is why you should have been back in the box. You can’t control yourself even when your powers are muffled, imagine how terrible the carnage would be if you didn’t have them on?_

Another loud clattering noise came, a frightened sob pulling from his throat as something hit the bed beside him. He could hear people again—hear them, the—the Cabal, their thoughts a whirl of panic and anger and worry ( _my fault my fault my fault)_ , and it only made the swirling feelings worse, wails tearing from his chest as he dug his fingers into his scalp and started pulling. _Don’t get it, don’t get it, don’t get it, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!_ The gale-force power kept swirling and swirling and he couldn’t stop it, it wouldn’t _stop-stop-stop—_

_You’re going to kill someone again. You’re going to hurt someone again. Just like Mommy. Just like Al._

Images rushed through his mind and he shrieked, squeezing his eyes shut against them and pulling harder at his hair, hearing voices begging him to calm down, someone saying _Ed, Ed, no, honey, we need you to—PLEASE,_ hearing another, smaller voice wailing, _Brother, stop, it hurts, it hurts—_

He’d killed them, he’d killed them, _HE’D KILLED THEM—_

_“BREATHE!”_

Catalyst jerked under the blankets, everything going still and silent-silent-silent for a moment as that one word pierced through the cacophony in his head, forced to suck in a shaky, trembling breath. His vision was still blurry, his eyes feeling hot-hot-hot and sticky, and he scrubbed futilely at them with a whimper. _They saw._ They’d all seen him get upset, and now he was gonna be stuck back in the box-box-box, and—and—and—

Warmth wrapped around him, and he went utterly still-still-still as someone dug him out from the blankets. He was tucked against someone’s chest, warm and safe, and he dug his face into their shirt without hesitation, sniffling and whimpering. _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry._

“You have _nothing_ to apologize for, kiddo.” The voice was firm and familiar, and he peeked up to see black eyes blinking solemnly down at him. Gentle hands untangled his from his hair, stroking through it slowly. “We should have kept a better handle on our emotions.

“And I shouldn’t have left you alone after getting upset,” Hawkeye’s voice said softly, and he leaned into the gentle hand that brushed tears off of his cheek. “I was just…starshine, they shouldn’t have done that to you. Any of it. I was mad at them for—for what they never let you do.”

“You were supposed to grow up,” Mustang murmured softly. Catalyst hid his face in his chest again, trembling with fear and shame-shame-shame. “You would have been a wonderful kid. You _are_ a wonderful kid. But you were supposed to get a chance to learn these things and make friends and be a _person,_ and the Nefas took that all away from you.” A hand stroked over his hair again and he curled closer, trying to fit himself in the smallest space possible, to see if he could hide away from the world forever-ever-ever—not in a box, but maybe in the arms of these people who cared. “It wasn’t your fault, Catalyst. It was never your fault.”

But it was. He’d hurt people. He wrecked this room because he got scared. He…he blew up a house. His house. With his mother inside, and his little brother— _Al was his little brother, he’d forgotten, he’d forgotten, he’d forgotten._ And now they were dead because of him. He deserved to be in the box, but he was too scared of it to admit it, to ask to go back, to do the right thing.

He didn’t say any of that, though. He just huddled closer, too scared and upset to deny the warm-warm-warm coming off his rescuer, but too guilty and hurt to speak-speak-speak. He just closed his eyes and clung on tight, hoping the world would fix itself again in a little bit.

“They stole your life,” Catalyst ( _was that his name? Was that what he’d been called in the memory?)_ heard Hawkeye whisper, and he dared to look up at her as a gentle kiss was pressed to his forehead. “So we’re going to get it back, and help you every step of the way. We promise. And if that means you need to get upset, or angry, or you need to let your Gift out, tell us, show us, do whatever you have to. We’re here for you, starshine. _We’re here for you.”_

“All of us,” Mustang added firmly, and if Catalyst reached out with his Gift, he could feel the truth of the words. “I know what it’s like to keep it all bottled up, kiddo. It never ends well, and it ends up hurting _you_ in the long run. And I think people have hurt you enough without you having to do it to yourself.” He whimpered softly as his chin was tilted up. “Okay?”

That…they wouldn’t…get mad? If he was mad-mad-mad? They wouldn’t be upset with him for…reacting and stuff? But that…

 _No. Stop that._ He sat up, managing a shaky little breath as he surveyed the room and scrubbed at his sticky, tearstained cheeks. _Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth._ He didn’t know where he knew the saying from, but he thought he’d heard someone—a Nefas? use it before. Either way, if they were letting him be upset without getting upset with him, even though he didn’t have the excuse of too-much-too-much-too-much power anymore, he wasn’t going to throw it back at them and push them into taking it away.

Broken glass on the floor. Pillows, blankets—broken crayons. A mess.

Catalyst stared at it as Mustang and Hawkeye started talking quietly amongst themselves, before reaching out hesitant hands. He poked and prodded at that familiar surge of power that always seemed to rush over his body, before humming softly, letting the noise ring in the air.

_You’re safe._

_You’re allowed to be here._

_You’re allowed to feel._

Gold and white chased down his veins and flared beneath his fingers, but for once, fear didn’t accompany the feeling. Blankets, pillow, glass, crayons, all started hovering, and he inhaled slowly—exhaled. Pushed the pillows and blankets onto the couch-that-wasn’t-quite-a-couch, tipped the shards of glass into a bin, the crayons on the desk. For once, his Gift didn’t feel…scary, or alien, or too powerful too big too _much._ It was…

It was part of him. It was doing what he wanted it to do. What _he_ wanted to do. He wanted to clean up his room, so he had. His Gift had. He—was his Gift. And his Gift was him. Part of him. Not a monster to defeat or an enemy to defend against. More like…

A friend. Who tried-tried-tried to protect him when he was scared or upset. Maybe it made him a monster, but…it wasn’t all bad. Maybe it wasn’t bad-bad-bad at all.

Catalyst stared down at his hands, and for the first time since before he could remember, he wasn’t afraid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ed's getting a little more used to his Gift, and getting more flashes of memory! woooo! some clarification in case certain things were unclear--there are certain colors that ed recognizes...well, by color, but not by name. he associated the sun with yellow, but called yellow "sun" because he didn't know what the word for yellow _was_. that's what riza figured out, and what got her so upset. i hope that was clear in the story, but i just wanted to elaborate to prevent any confusion!
> 
> next chapter, we'll get to see everyone's favorite suit of armor (who isn't actually a suit of armor in this fic, but a Whole Human)! im really excited to write more al pov, because it means more snapshots of Gifted society and also AL! hope everyone is staying safe and healthy in this time of crisis <3 stick together, stay in as much as possible, and try to learn something/try something new! i've been trying to learn to do makeup recently just to keep busy, so that's how things are going for me...
> 
> leave a comment or a kudos if you enjoyed it, and i'll see you next week <3


	6. stories and secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Far away from the Cabal's base, Alphonse Elric makes his own schemes, writes his own story, and plans what he's certain will be the most incredible take-down in history--when it comes to pass.
> 
> Then his adopted sister bursts into his room and turns on the news, and everything changes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AL-PHONSE AL-PHONSE AL-PHONSE! with some bonus winry because I love her and she's my fave, sooooo…
> 
> alphonse is technically a conspiracy theorist in this but he's right so like, is it that much of a conspiracy theory lmao? also bby journalist al and hacker winry being siblings, because they've been raised as siblings in this au.

Most fourteen-year-old kids didn’t know—at least, not word-for-word verbatim, right down to the job description and future accomplishments—what they wanted to be when they grew up. They definitely didn’t figure it out at four years old after being dragged out of the wreckage of their own house. And, Al supposed, they weren’t supposed to be this reckless about achieving it, but he’d always been bad at letting things go. Important things, at least, and there was nothing more important than _this._

The facts were clear—simple, even. Al’s mother was dead. This was tragic, and Al grieved for her, but he also barely remembered Trisha Elric. The thing he mourned for was the fact that his chance to have a mother was gone. She died in an accidental Gift-breaking when his brother lost control of his powers and blew up their house in a blast that killed him as well, and nearly killed Al. Again, a tragedy. Clear-cut. Simple. He was left orphaned, raised by the Rockbells (they let him keep his name, which he was infinitely grateful for). He was three when it happened. He barely remembered his family.

He _should_ have barely remembered his family. But—and here was where the facts stopped being clear—he did. He remembered his mom, her gentle hands smoothing his hair back from her face and her laughter echoing through the house. He remembered his big brother, floating stuffed animals over his bed like a mobile whenever Al had a bad night or didn’t want to take a nap. He even remembered bits and pieces of his father—a small, secret smile, calloused hands lifting him and his brother in the air while they shrieked and giggled.

He _remembered._ And he also remembered that his big brother had been powerful—a Cataclysm-level Gifted, the doctors had informed Mom. _He could level a city without even blinking once his power reaches maturity. He’ll be dangerous. We have specialists we can recommend, containment facilities—_

Well, Al didn’t remember everything they’d said, but that was the general consensus about Cataclysm-levels online. Standard procedure was to find a way to keep their Gift under wraps, or at least at a normal level, instead of teaching them to deal with it. Al was mildly horrified by this, and also grateful that his adopted sister had come into her Gift later—Winry was a Cataclysm, too, her technokinesis-and-pathy able to shut down every electronic device in the town of Risembool without breaking a sweat once she turned ten, but her parents were doctors themselves and didn’t trust the infamous facilities meant to “help” Cataclysms. That so many of them had to do with containment or smothering or suppressing instead of teaching, they said, was indicative of something worse than mere fear.

The worst part, perhaps, was that they had the evidence to back it up. When someone at school had called Cataclysms unstable (Al knocked him unconscious with a little blast of his own Gift—and he’d almost gotten away with it, except for the witnesses) and cited his brother as an _example,_ Sara Rockbell had taken him and Winry (seven and eight respectfully, him sniffling and Winry burning with righteous anger) aside and explained that there was something _not right_ about what happened to Ed and Mom. That a government agent had showed up on their doorstep when Al was too little to remember and _strongly suggested_ that she sign guardianship over to them and let the Nefas mentor him in the use of his powers.

Trisha Elric had refused, vehemently, and let the vines of the wisteria pots dangling from the roof twitch warningly, rosebushes blooming early as their thorns lengthened when she told the man never to darken her door again. Not a week later, their house was torn apart in a massive explosion of sheer psychic energy—that crackled _red._

From what little Al could remember, his brother’s eyes turned white when he used his Gift, and the wisps of power were like swirling gold and ivory. Not red lightning.

His brother’s body was never found, and the town generally wrote it off as his Gift tearing him apart from the inside out. Al, though, knew better. Knew that something was _wrong._ A target had been put on them when Mom refused to give Ed into the Nefas’s “care”, and _something_ had happened to his brother. Someone had done something to him, either masked their Gift as his or used something to push him into losing control.

Because the Ed that he remembered never would have done that. Not in a million years.

Al had known the Nefas were corrupt from seven years old, had suspected it even earlier. Knew that the institutions they supported, the police and the facilities and the government of Amestris itself, were likely just as messed up. He didn’t know how deep it went, how far the corruption ran, how _bad_ it was, but he was determined to find out. To figure out the _truth,_ and share it at any cost.

Which meant it was a very, very good thing Amestris still had a free press, because otherwise Al might have had to turn to the Cabal, which was a whole other can of worms. Were they criminals? Yes, definitely—they’d broken laws, including those that most non-corrupt countries (if such a thing existed) would insist on, like breaking and entering and armed robbery and such. Were they villains? Amestris (most of it, anyways) said yes. Al thought privately that they seemed more like _vigilantes._ They were fighting the so-called heroes, yes, but they weren’t just wreaking havoc to satisfy their taste for blood, unlike how the Nefas loved to frame it. Everywhere the Cabal hit was some sort of stronghold of the governments, those research and containment facilities, banks that were discovered (with a bit of Al’s digging after-the-fact and some help from Winry and her hacking genius) to be shells for less-than-ethical activities.

They were breaking laws, yes, but they were trying to prove a point. The only problem was that the Nefas had such a stranglehold on people, ensuring they always, always came out on top in the eyes of the media. Never mind that the Cabal never attacked civilians beyond restraining them or herding them away from the “action”. Never mind that ninety-five percent of injuries in the fights came from the Nefas doing the exact opposite, fighting without regard for the innocent lives around them. Never mind the video that he and Winry dug up last year showing the infamous Hawk’s Eye soothing a little girl whose was trapped under rubble and concentrating the energy blasts she used to slowly burn through it until she could lift her out while the battle raged on. The video had been taken down almost as soon as it was uploaded, the person who posted it quietly disappearing a day later, but it was impossible to keep Winry out of anything tech-based.

Al hadn’t dared show this to anybody, or share it with teachers or classmates or _anyone._ Instead of writing his persuasive essay assignments on the proper classification of the Cabal— _villains or vigilantes?—_ he kept his head down and chose something as far away from heroes and villains as possible. The least amount of attention he drew for now, the better. He couldn’t risk being the next one to “disappear”, not yet. Not when Ed was still out there.

Because he _was_ out there. Al could feel it—and, a lot more logically, the government and the Nefas had wanted Ed under their care. That didn’t mean dead. It didn’t mean in good condition, either, but he had to believe he was alive, because if not…

_If not,_ Alphonse would dismantle the story the Nefas built for themselves sooner rather than later, and steal the life from their lungs while he was at it.

He flipped quietly through the steadily-growing pile of evidence on his personal datapad, written in a mix of shorthand and code that only he and Winry could decipher. They’d agreed on being each other’s contingency plans, of sorts—if one of them was taken or hurt or just couldn’t do it, the other would go through with the plan all the way to the end. Bronze eyes flicked to the video playing on the holoscreen in his wall, Maria Ross reporting live from… _huh._ That didn’t look like Central. More like East City.

_Must be important,_ he thought wistfully, curling up on his bed and swiping gloomily to another video clip—this one of him and Winry theorizing. Faces and names were blurred for now, but when it was time, they’d show the world their faces. He glanced at the holoscreen again, curious; Maria Ross was one of the country’s preeminent broadcast journalists, and a _really good one._ She asked questions that made him wonder if she suspected the truth, too, but she never made herself a potential target for the Nefas, which Al thought was good even if Winry grumbled about it. Strategically, it was the better decision. She had a lot more power that way, and if she really was questioning the virtue of their heroes, then that meant she could plant more seeds of doubt in people’s minds.

Also, she just seemed really cool and nice, which was good enough for Al anyways.

He hummed quietly, swiping through to a different video as he shut the holoscreen off—before yelping as Winry burst in and brought it back to life with a flick of a hand, blue eyes wide. “Have you seen the latest report?” she demanded, dropping down on his bed and turning the volume on without waiting for an answer. “The Cabal made another move, on some sort of lab this time.”

Al managed to recover from the shock quickly, calming his own heartbeat with a little flare of red as he frowned and looked at the screen again. “On a lab? They haven’t gone after anything along those lines in like, five years.” Interest piqued, he leaned over her shoulder to look at it as the broadcast switched from Maria Ross’s face to security footage of the attack. Winry’s arm found its way around his shoulders as she brought the footage into bright color, and he squinted at it for a moment as he leaned against his sister’s side. “Life-saving research, huh?” he muttered bitterly when he saw the words flashing on the bottom of the screen. “Five hundred cenz says that’s a cover-up.”

“Lousy bet, Al. It’d be easier to just pay you up front.”

He stuck his tongue out at her, and she poked him in the side, making him squeal at the ticklish sensation before shoving her. She elbowed him back, cackling, before the hand on his shoulder tightened as her eyes snapped back to the screen. “Al—Al, _look.”_

He stopped his quest to get her back in order to stare at the screen, furrowing his brow. Flames with a hint of crackling blue—so the Flame Alchemist was involved, of course he was, he was their leader…but he didn’t see any signs of the others. _Huh. Probably supposed to be some kind of stealth mission, wonder why they sent him…well, he’s a Cataclysm, so he does have the edge in firepower—ha—and according to the rumors, he had some kind of military training, so maybe that’s why._ Nothing overly shocking, but he figured they could scrub the footage later for anything interesting—

Then he saw it, and his heart stopped in his chest.

_No._

The wall of the lab exploded—not from the Flame Alchemist’s power, but from something (someone?) entirely different. Shouts started to ring out, along with screams, but a voice rose above them all in a terrified, broken wail as the blast mowed down the forest of pine trees surrounding the lab. There were no sparks, no storms called, no sign of the earth rumbling. Just sheer power tearing the place apart from the inside out.

Power that shone with dancing wisps of white and gold. Power that spread as that wail rose to a shriek of absolute _fear_ —and abruptly cut off.

Al stared, unable to look away as Winry zoomed in on the fleeing figure of the Flame Alchemist…and the thing huddled in his arms. The person, who Al could tell even through grainy footage had blonde hair and a Gift of incredible psychic power.

A Cataclysm in white and gold.

“He’s alive,” Winry breathed next to him, her blue, blue eyes lighting up in 1’s and 0’s as electric-blue twitched around her fingertips and the footage froze. “Al, he’s _alive!”_

Al’s vision blurred, and he blinked hard, finding tears in his eyes as he stared at that blurry figure. “He’s alive,” he repeated. He’d known it, but seeing it was an entirely different thing. Hearing it was an entirely different thing.

_My brother screamed like that. Like…like he thought he was going to die._

The Cabal had him. Al didn’t necessarily trust them, but he was certain they were better than the Nefas.

The Nefas…

“The Nefas are _dead_ ,” Al breathed, and let the promise settle in his bones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gifts:  
> Alphonse: heartrender abilities (can control the human body in ways that focus more on harm)  
> Winry: technopathy and technokinesis
> 
> WOOOOOOOOOOO I always turn bby al into a criminal mastermind somehow, don't I? First my leverage au, then conflicted, now this...eh, he's fun to write like this. Alphonse, master of chaos, everybody! Also master of seeing through bullshit!  
> Yes, that was me heavily implying that Ed either didn't cause the explosion or was forced to cause it, and led to believe he did it because of his Gift being too much. Gaslighting tag coming into play, folks.
> 
> I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! It was loads of fun to write <3 Leave a comment or a kudos if you enjoyed it, and I'll see you next week! (also, if any of you know six the musical, keep your eyes peeled for a six au in the near future! and if you don't know six the musical, look it up and give it a listen, it's fantastic)


	7. friends and fighters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy, in his continued quest to help Catalyst, makes a call to a certain detective. Said detective is delighted to hear from his best friend...until he finds out why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this one is late! Quarantine is surprisingly...exhausting. It's really hard to focus or even spell simple words right now, and I have no motivation at all to write my longer stories, but I'm trying! I'm definitely not giving up on this one. I love the world it's in too much. Have some Hughes as an apology!

Roy was used to leading a double life, frankly. It wasn’t like the Nefas knew his civilian identity, no matter how much they suspected; without confirmation, they couldn’t turn to the press, and whenever they got a lick of DNA evidence it always went mysteriously missing. Plus, Roy Mustang was presumed dead, and kept that way by Maes Hughes, the Cabal member no one knew existed. Roy would prefer to keep him out of it entirely; Hughes had a wife and a young daughter and his position as a detective in the Central Police Department was dangerous enough without the fact that he was a traitorous informant thrown in the mix as well.

But no, Hughes insisted, using his reputation and his Gift for charm and influence to get them the tips that no amount of digging into the Nefas’s servers (without a proper technokinetic; Fuery’s technopath abilities allowed him to listen to and access all sorts of technology, but he couldn’t _control_ it the way a technokinetic could—and unfortunately, most of the ones Roy knew existed were firmly under Nefas control) could. Roy felt guilty about asking him to cast his lot in with them after he’d already risked being arrested for treason when he’d helped Roy fake his death after his Gift turned Cataclysmic, but he refused to _listen._

_I don’t want my daughter to grow up in the same world we had to survive,_ he said when Roy asked him, _and I don’t want her to grow up believing in heroes that would sooner let her rot than actually help a single soul. I want her to have real heroes, real people. To have the ability to decide for herself._

Roy had been touched, of course, but he still worried. He figured anyone would. After all, the possibility remained that if Hughes was discovered, his treason would be taken out on Gracia and little Elicia.

Elicia was _three._ The thought of her being attacked by the Nefas was abhorrent, terrifying enough without the knowledge of what they had _actually done to a toddler._ Said toddler—now teenager—was now trying to _walk_ for the first time in eleven years, toddling and stumbling unsteadily around his room and down some of the hallways. Who still wouldn’t speak out loud, even as the words in his head grew a tiny bit more complex and he started to _learn_ more. Who couldn’t recognize his own emotions, who was too weak and tired and scared to stand being _alone,_ so used to being locked up in a literal _cage_ while his so-called heroes laughed and mocked him from the outside, that he could barely stomach being alone for more than ten minutes.

They had done that to an innocent child just four years old simply because they wanted his power for their own. Someone who wasn’t the child of a traitor, who had done nothing to them, whose family had said nothing to them—as far as Roy knew, at least. All information on Catalyst seemed to be completely wiped just a day before Fuery and Breda had gotten to it. Fuery had quietly informed him that it hadn’t strictly been _wiped,_ that what ragged threads he’d been able to coax into telling the truth said it had been _downloaded_ somewhere and then _cut out. Someone else took it. Not the Nefas, I think. They’re not elaborate enough to try leaving a trail like this._

_So what are you saying—someone stole the information specifically on Catalyst? What did they want from it? Do they know about his power?_ Then, hesitantly, he’d asked, _do we have an ally? Somewhere out there._

Fuery had shrugged helplessly. _I don’t know. It was definitely a technokinetic…but there hasn’t been one this powerful in years. Definitely not one anti-Nefas enough to hack their servers and steal information._ He hesitated. _Sir, I think the big question…the big question is were they looking for Project Catalyst—or Catalyst himself?_

A technokinetic was out there who either wanted a weapon…or was looking for the person Catalyst had been before he was ever put in that box.

As much as Roy knew that the former was more likely, he desperately hoped that the latter was true. That somewhere out there was someone who knew the truth about Catalyst, who knew his name and who knew how and why he’d been pulled into that cage. That maybe out there he had family, someone who loved him and had the resources or powers to look for him. Some selfish part of him hissed and growled at the thought of having to give this precious child back, the gentle soul slowly learning to be human again—but if they were out there, if they were alive and could protect him, he would welcome them gladly. For Catalyst’s sake.

But the thing was, Roy wasn’t just the Flame Alchemist, head of the Cabal, dangerous villain-slash-vigilante-slash-technically-a-domestic-terrorist. He, like his foster mother before him, kept that half of his identity separate from the rest—though, he supposed hers had been more espionage than outright vigilantism. But like Chris Mustang (better known as Madame Christmas, the legendary bar owner with a Gift for finding secrets), Roy Mustang ran a bar above his base with the rest of his team. Sure, his face was recognizable, but the people who frequented it either knew and didn’t car, or didn’t know and didn’t want to voice their suspicions for fear of retribution. To them, Roy Mustang was the kind young man with a skilled empath chef and a savvy young woman running the business side of things. To them, he was an ordinary person they could trust with their secrets.

Secrets that often gave him tips that, combined with Hughes’s intel and Fuery and Breda’s recon, could lead him to devastating information. Secrets that the Nefas kept buried. Projects that could destroy countries, level worlds.

Those three components, with their safety net of intel, had led him right to Project Catalyst and the frightened, lonely child at the heart of it. And right now, two of those three components weren’t in action at all. Which they could manage with for a time, but with whatever this outside source was locking down information? They would need all the parts of their network they could get…and maybe, just maybe, Hughes could help them find a way to get Catalyst the help he needed. The _real_ help, the things he and Riza and the rest couldn’t do. The kid was emerging from his shell, slowly but surely, but he still didn’t know how to function like a person, couldn’t even name all the colors in a rainbow or the months of the year.

He couldn’t— _wouldn’t—_ speak. And while Roy could teach him the rest, go over colors with him until he could identify them, help him learn how to count days and weeks and all the things you were supposed to learn when he’d been taken, even help him learn the things he was supposed to be learning in those eleven years, he couldn’t help him with that. He couldn’t figure out how to help him develop emotionally in that way he’d never gotten a chance to. He was a fighter, not a healer. And sure, the kid had them all wrapped around his teeny-tiny fingers, but Roy…

Roy couldn’t fix him, or turn him back into the person he was supposed to be. The person the Nefas crushed in a cage, leaving a fractured mind and broken heart in his place. No one could really do that, regardless of Gifts or skill sets or practice. But there were people out there who could help Catalyst a lot more than Roy could right now, and with Hughes’ help, it was possible that he’d be able to bring some of those people into the fold, or at least have someone who could…well, he wasn’t sure. Take Catalyst to a proper therapist, preferably. Eventually. Hell, just being able to get out in the fresh air while all of the buzz about their latest attack was still going down might do Catalyst good.

But the time had come. Roy needed to update his best friend…and Hughes needed to meet Catalyst.

The first thing Hughes said when he called him (secure phone line, watched by Fuery for any bugs, created by Breda and tracked carefully to ensure the Nefas could never get hold of it—but even that was at risk, Roy realized with a sudden chill, now that the unknown technokinetic was operating out there) was, “ _Definitely not one of your top ten escapes. What the hell happened there?”_ Despite his jovial tone, Roy could hear the worry in his old friend’s voice, and hid a faint smile as he leaned against the wall. _Same old Maes Hughes._

“Well, we got Project Catalyst,” he muttered, glancing over his shoulder as the slight pitter-patter of feet echoed behind him. A slight smile crossed his face when he saw Catalyst taking small steps down the hall, shaky hands braced against painted walls as Riza followed behind, looking endlessly fond of the cautious little thing. He looked up when he heard his name, big gold eyes blinking warily up at Roy before one tiny finger stretched out and pointed to himself and— _oh, god, that’s adorable. Shit._ He reached out and gently ruffled his hair, careful not to dislodge the mufflers. Breda and Fuery were working on making them more convenient than a pair of earmuffs, but Roy found it rather precious.

_“Well, I figured, since they actually lost research,”_ Hughes was saying in his ear, and he gave himself a brisk shake, forcing himself to focus. “ _But how did that explosion happen? There was no fire, so it wasn’t you—but it clearly wasn’t them, either. Is there a third party at play here or did someone develop new Gifts? I don’t like being outta the loop on this, Roy.”_

“I know, I know. We should have gotten in contact with you the second the mission went sideways, but we got…sidetracked.”

_“Sidetracked?”_ he echoed. _“Everyone’s favorite vigilante not sticking to the script? Well, what could have prompted_ that?”

“Cool the sass, please,” he said dryly, and got a bark of laughter out of the other man, watching Catalyst like a hawk as he slowly toddled around a corner with single-minded determination, Riza very clearly stifling her own mirth as she followed him. “It…alright, this is gonna piss you off so much, but—it was a kid, Hughes.”

A pause. Roy winced.

_“…What.”_

“Project Catalyst is a child. With a really strong Gift—a Cataclysm that might be even stronger than me. He’s about fifteen now, but he’s been in there since he was four. Barely remembers anything about the outside world. Barely remembers how to be _human.”_

_“What did they do to him?”_ Hughes’s voice was sharp with rage, a far cry from Roy’s own fiery temper, but every bit as deadly—the knife in the dark to a raging, ever-burning wildfire. “ _Eleven years—did they try to make him one of theirs? Train him somehow?”_

He shuddered. He almost _wished_ that was the case, that Catalyst had been simply turned into a soldier instead of an endless generator of power, a bomb kept sleeping until they decided to detonate him. It would be hard to deal with, but not nearly as heartbreaking. “No,” he murmured. “They kept him in a cage, pumped him full of drugs, took samples. They might be using him to create some kind of soldier, but he was never meant to be one—just a weapon. A battery.”

“ _They did that…to a four-year-old.”_

Roy leaned against the wall and sighed tiredly. “Yeah. We have him now. He’s safe, he’s opening up, but we don’t know anything about him other than his age, his powers, and how long he was in there, and he doesn’t remember. And…we don’t know what he needs. Therapy, obviously, but we can’t just walk into a doctor’s office and ask for help. Not until the latest attack cools down and we can use the skinweave tech to disguise ourselves again. So—I don’t know what I’m even asking you, but…”

_“I want to see him,”_ Hughes said, voice rough with emotions Roy knew all too well—horror, grief, anger, disgust. _“And I’ll do everything in my power to help the kid, Roy, but—but if they did something like that, we’re eleven years too late. Not to help him,”_ he amended quickly, perhaps sensing the white-hot anger that burned through Roy at that. _“But these bastards need to go down as soon as possible. We can’t play the long game anymore.”_

Roy’s eyes widened fractionally, fire flickering around his hands. “You mean…”

Hughes had helped him plan this. Every step, every stage—including the plan to play the long game. To wait until they had an opening before going on the offensive. Before demanding to be heard again.

But…the loss of Project Catalyst had the Nefas scrambling. Which meant they _had_ that opening.

_“Yeah. It’s time we took them down.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed it! We're gonna see Hughes meeting Ed next chapter, and it's going to be cute and fluffy--also, Roy is probably gonna encounter this mysterious technokinetic (cough cough, inry-way) soon enough, so keep your eyes peeled! If any of you like SIX and fma, I'd recommend you check out my latest fic as well: [so i picked up a pen and a microphone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23687467) (also if you haven't heard six the musical, look it up--it's really good!). Leave a comment and/or a kudos if you enjoyed it, and I'll see you next week <3


	8. hugs and kittens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone new is coming to the Cabal base to meet Catalyst, and Catalyst is...not entirely on board with this plan. At least the Cabal are there to protect him, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone! I'm sorry this chapter is late. I've decided that, for my own sanity in quarantine, this fic will update bi-weekly--meaning every two weeks, not twice a week. Hopefully this will give me a chance to finish chapters earlier, edit, and provide top quality writing to you without sacrificing my own mental health. I apologize for any disappointment this may cause <3
> 
> Fortunately, I've got fluff, angst, and some good Hughes-Roy banter at the end! I hope this chapter was worth the wait <3

There was a _new-new-new person_ here, and Catalyst was curious. And not scared—well, not that scared. He was always scared, but he wasn’t very scared of this new person. Mustang promised that he was nice, and everyone else agreed, and they didn’t lie-lie-lie or try to hurt him like the Nefas did ( _needles claws too much too little, always laughing laughing laughing—),_ so that meant he _had_ to be nice-nice-nice. He could hear them, too, when he reached out with his Gift a little, hear worried thoughts and laughter and memories of a little girl with pigtails and a nice lady with green eyes. Family, probably. The new person seemed to be the only one in the Cabal—if he really was part of the Cabal; he hadn’t heard the Nefas talk about him when he was stuck in the box, though—who had a family like that.

Except maybe him. Or he’d used to, anyway, and he wasn’t really part of the Cabal, but—but still. It was _interesting._ He hadn’t been able to use his Gift that well in the box-box-box ( _cold white empty hurtshurtshurts),_ but he knew that the Nefas didn’t really have _families_ like that, that the relationships he sometimes saw flash through their memories were what they called a “pub-li-ci-ty stunt”. Catalyst didn’t really know what that meant, but he figured it meant a _lie_ of some sort, except for maybe the tall one with the eyepatch, who had some sort of warm feeling toward the lady he married. Not like this, though. Not that bright, warm love that rushed through the new person whenever he thought of them or the light that seemed to glow around every memory of them.

_Was Mommy like that with me and Al? Did we have a dad at all?_ He never featured in Catalyst’s broken, hazy memories, whoever he was. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he’d left, or died, or gotten hurt somehow.

_Maybe I killed him too._

He clamped down on the thought before it could consume him, tears burning at his eyes as he worried at his lip, forcibly turning his thoughts to the family in the new person’s mind—the only family of his kind he’d seen since…since before he could remember. He saw people in the memories of the rest—Havoc had lots of women in his memories, which he thought was sort of funny (he didn’t understand _why-why-why,_ though, but everyone else seemed amused when he started making faces and sulking about the latest “break-up”, whatever that meant, and Catalyst found himself giggling along)—but the ones who featured most in the minds of the rest were…each other. And sometimes there were bits of irritation and annoyance around the memories, or grudges—but there was love first and foremost.

Were they a family too? _That sounds nice,_ he thought wistfully. _Getting to pick your family. Or build it._ He knew some people had bad families (it was hard _not_ to know-know-know, when your brain could hear _everything)._ Maybe some of the Cabal did, too. He hadn’t dug deep-deep-deep enough to find out, and wasn’t sure if he wanted to. _I think I would pick them, too. And Al. And Mommy._ If they were alive, and here, everything would be okay. That would be the best family _ever._

Except they weren’t, because he’d ruined it all, and it was _his fault._ Even if the Nefas people were bad-bad-bad for taking him, he’d still killed Al ( _bronze eyes small hands love you love you love you)_ and Mommy ( _bright smile lilac trees, please stay-stay-stay)_ and done something _worse-worse-worse_ with his Gift. Even if he was better with it now, and using it didn’t make everything worse like it did before. It still did sometimes, but not always.

It felt less like a monster inside him now, and more like…more like something that was a _part_ of him. Like Havoc’s em-pa-thy powers, or Breda’s pre-cog-ni-tion. He didn’t use it to fight bad guys or anything interesting, really, which—well, sometimes he thought he’d like to, and other times the idea of seeing any of them again was absolutely _terrifying_ (especially when he considered that he could end up back in the box-box-box if they _caught_ him, which made his head spin and his chest hurt at the very thought). But it was still his, and they didn’t have control of it anymore, and that was more-more-more than he’d been able to say for a very-very-very long time.

He could say it now, though, and it _was_ his now, just like the Gift-mufflers Havoc had given him. Maybe those were the only reason why he had any control of it at all, but he couldn’t really bring himself to _care._ He was safe with them on. If he wanted them off—he’d heard them saying he couldn’t keep them on forever, that it wasn’t safe, _worrying_ about him like he was part of this odd little family too (which—he didn’t like seeing them worry, but it made him _so happy_ that they worried about him, that there were people who would worry about him and love him and be mad or sad or happy for him when something happened, good _or_ bad)—then maybe everything would get loud and scary again, but he _didn’t._

If he did, though…if he did, he wouldn’t be locked in the box again. They would teach him how to use them bit by bit. Catalyst _trusted_ them.

At least, that was what this felt like— _trust._ The feeling that you could let someone get close to you, see all the weak and open and broken bits (though there wasn’t much of Catalyst that wasn’t weak and wide-open), and know that they wouldn’t hurt you. That they’d still like you even if you weren’t perfect or obedient or even good-good-good. And Catalyst—Catalyst _knew_ now, from their thoughts, that he wasn’t like what a person his age should be like (knew that he was _fifteen,_ not just _bigger-than-twelve,_ though he’d really been right in both cases when it came down to it), that most people didn’t have to rely on others this much-much-much and knew what colors were and how to walk and speak and things he just— _didn’t._ But they were still here anyway. They cared about him anyway, and had seen all the bad bits, the broken pieces, and they were still here.

He _trusted_ them. Trusted the villains of the story, the bad guys, the scary people everyone said were out to destroy everything _good—_ because they weren’t the ones to hurt him. The heroes hurt him.

And whether he was a good person or not, that meant they weren’t very heroic at all.

He didn’t know whether that meant he should trust Mustang’s friend-friend-friend the same way, but he trusted him and Hawkeye to not bring anyone scary around him, and he seemed nice enough anyway. He could hear them coming down the hall now, talking quietly, and Mustang was laughing, and Hawkeye’s thoughts were still worried-worried-worried but _happy,_ so they had to be okay, right? None of the people that had been introduced to him had been out to hurt him, and the new man’s thoughts seemed to say that he didn’t, that he was _safe,_ and Catalyst could trust his Gift a bit more than before, so he was probably okay.

It was still a tiny bit scary, though. It was getting harder and harder not to pull his blankets over his head and hide underneath them as they got closer and closer to his room (and it _was_ his room now, he was sure of it, because everyone else thought of it like _his room_ now). He settled for wrapping his arms tightly around one of the big pillows on his bed and hugging it to his chest, peeking worriedly over the top of it as a gentle hand knocked against the door. “Kiddo, it’s me and Riza. That person we wanted you to meet is here. Can we come in and say hello?”

Catalyst found himself getting more and more against this plan, his stomach twisting nervously as he reached out and grazed his Gift against their consciousnesses, fingertips glowing white and gold as his veins shimmered under his skin. There was still no intent to hurt, but—but people could hide their thoughts, now that he had the mufflers on. Some people could block him out, or misdirect him. Maybe that was why the Cabal wanted him to learn to use his Gift without them.

Still, he withdrew his power after a moment and whispered, _Okay._

The doorknob twisted, and he curled his fingers more tightly into the pillow as it swung open. Dark eyes blinked down at him, before softening, and something in Catalyst relaxed as Mustang crossed the room and gently ruffled his hair. “Feeling a little nervous, kiddo?”

He didn’t know how he knew that. Mustang’s Gift was _fire,_ not mind-reading like his, but Mustang _always_ seemed to know what to do when he was upset or scared or lonely. He blinked up at him, before nodding and sniffling quietly, very pointedly _not_ looking at the door. If he looked, then it would be _real_ , and the new person would be there. He’d have to face them—but he didn’t know if he _could_. Not yet. _Scary,_ he pressed into Mustang’s mind, flashes of the box seeping through.

That gentle, calloused hand ran through his hair again, and he leaned into the touch as Mustang settled down next to him, letting him lean against broad shoulders and curl into something—someone—warm-warm-warm. There was anger deep in his thoughts now, and he dug his face into his side with a whimper before relaxing a bit—it wasn’t directed at him, whatever it was. “Yeah, new people can be pretty scary, huh?”

Catalyst nodded fervently at that, curling up tighter as a sympathetic sort of sound rumbled through Mustang’s chest. “Well, Riza and I are gonna be right here if you need us,” he heard him whisper, felt something settle on top of his head as he was pulled into a warm lap. He huddled into the contact desperately, craving the warmth and the feeling of safety in the midst of the newness and the scariness of _everything._ “And if you get scared, or you don’t wanna talk with Maes, you don’t have to. We’ll go take you up to the kitchen and show you how to bake those cookies Havoc brought down last time, okay? Just the three of us, while Breda and Fuery fill him in on the boring grown-up stuff.”

Oh. That sounded nice. He remembered the cookies—sweet and chewy in the middle, with crispy edges and gooey bits of chocolate that made his hands all sticky. He’d been really bouncy after eating one (and then really _tired),_ but Havoc and Breda had laughed the whole time and Mustang had been smiling like he’d done something good. Catalyst _really_ wanted to do something good again. And to eat the cookies, because they’d been _yummy._

Hesitantly, he tugged on Mustang’s shirt, before leaning his head against his chest and lowering the defensive pillow with a quiet sigh. _Okay._

There was a quiet hum, and he looked up to see a warm smile on the man’s face as his hair was ruffled gently. “Thanks, kiddo. You’re being really brave right now, you know that?”

Brave? He didn’t _feel_ brave, not at all—but the words still made him perk up a little bit as the stranger walked in, feeling a bit stronger. If the head of the Cabal, the person who _saved_ him, who fought _battles,_ thought he was brave, then he _had_ to be brave, right?

“Oh my god, Roy, he’s _adorable.”_

Catalyst’s eyes went round as he stared up at the new man—he was _tall,_ even taller than Musta— _Roy?_ And with a big, friendly smile on his face that didn’t look anything like the green-haired Nefas’s mean-mean-mean grins or the clawed one’s dark-dark-dark looks when they were mean to him. He was hiding something behind his back, that much he could tell, but he didn’t much feel like looking to find out _what._ Timidly, he lifted a hand and waved it a bit, resisting the urge to start chewing on his sleeve as best he could. Fifteen-year-olds probably weren’t supposed to chew on things like that, right?

“Careful, Hughes, he’s still getting used to—” Mus— _Roy_ started, and Catalyst squeaked in surprise as the man—Maes? Hughes?—plopped down on the bed, beaming at him like the sun itself. Catalyst stared at him, more than a little dazzled as he put whatever he was hiding down somewhere he couldn’t see it, before yelping as something was plopped into his lap—a big, soft something with floppy legs and big blue felt eyes. _Kitty_ , he recognized dimly, running his fingers over soft white ears and hearing Al’s laughter echo in his memories as Roy hissed, “ _Hughes!”_

“Sorry, sorry—oh, shi— _shoot,_ did I scare you, buddy?” Catalyst watched, utterly bewildered as Hughes checked him over worriedly before gently patting his head. “I’m sorry if I did—I’ve just heard so much about you, you wouldn’t believe how much Roy has been gushing—”

“I have _not_ been gushing—”

“Don’t listen to him, little buddy, he absolutely adores you—”

“I—Catalyst, kiddo, I am _so_ sorry—”

“See, he’s not denying—”

_“Maes Hughes, I swear to God—”_

A giggle pulled out of Catalyst’s throat before he could choke it down as the banter continued—and another, and another, until peals of laughter were filling the air and he was hugging the giant stuffed kitty to his chest, trying to muffle it in soft fur. He barely recognized the sound, barely even knew what it was, but—he liked it, and he felt safe, and they were _funny,_ Roy and Hughes. He felt more than heard them go silent, opened his eyes amidst another fit of giggles to see them staring at him, Hughes with delight, and Roy…

Roy looked like Catalyst had just handed him the stars, his eyes shining and a look of something like wonder on his face. “…Hughes,” he said after a moment, “you might just be an angel.”

And Hughes winked, and Catalyst burst out laughing again, because for a moment—for _one moment,_ he felt like maybe everything would be just fine after all. Maybe not everyone in the outside world was this nice—the Nefas weren’t—but Maes Hughes existed, and if someone like him could, then maybe…

Maybe the world Catalyst had come from when he still had a name of his own would welcome him back, someday.

Maybe there would be someone out there for him, who’d look out for him the way Hughes did for Roy in those fleeting memories he’d seen. Someone he’d come from, someone to go to.

He wasn’t brave enough to try, not yet, but one day…maybe one day he’d know for sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hughes: bribing kids with giant stuffed animals is _always_ a valid tactic to get them to like you. Also, I have some good news that a few of you might already know: I've committed to Emerson College and I'll be studying Creative Writing! Maybe one day you'll see my (real) name on a proper book cover, lol. 
> 
> I hope you guys liked this chapter! Leave a comment and/or a kudos if you did, and I'll see you in two weeks <3


	9. siblings and code

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winry's got the files on Project Catalyst, on Ed, and Al prepares to look through them.
> 
> He doesn't like what he finds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whooooo I'm on time for once! And we're back with grifter-hacker duo Alphonse Elric and Winry Rockbell, our two other favorite blondes! Hope you enjoy it <3

“Did you get it?”

“All of it,” his sister confirmed, flipping her datapad in a careless hand. Al narrowly avoided the urge to screech and snatch it out of her hands; Winry’s talent for fixing things meant she was a little more careless with them (though god forbid you broke one of her projects, she’d reconfigure all your technology into strange languages only she could read and make your holoscreen get stuck on the kiddie cartoon channels for days, and that was only after she beat you up with a wrench), but he’d prefer not to risk losing that precious data so quickly. “I stored and wiped it all from their servers. No one’s gonna be able to crack it—no one on their side, anyway.”

“And the Cabal?” They were the ones that _had_ Ed, had the source of all this data, but Al still wasn’t sure whether they were friend or foe. Allies, maybe, and he’d do whatever it took to get his brother back, but he definitely didn’t trust them not to use him as the weapon the Nefas wanted him to be. Not yet, anyways.

Winry shrugged, tucking it under her arm. “Not unless Byte turns out to be a Cataclysm, too.” Blue sparked around her fingers and she grinned. “And we know for a fact that technokinesis is _far_ more effective than technopathy.”

Al snorted despite himself, sitting down next to her as she swiped the pad open and started typing something again, the glow of the screens surrounding her room strangely comforting. Each one displayed the schematics for something—he could see weapons of some sort, and armor, and little robots and even prosthetics—but he wasn’t sure which were hacked files from the Nefas and which were her own designs. “You can stop patting yourself on the back now, Win.”

“And why would I? I did _awesome.”_

“Uh-huh,” Al said, amused. “I’d be more impressed if you weren’t _literally_ just saying you were hacking the Nefas back in elementary school.”

She scoffed. “Okay, fine, breaking into the first layer of technological defenses? Easy-peasy. Embarrassingly lemon-squeezy, to be frank. I have no idea how they’ve stayed in control if a nine-year-old could crack their systems.” She drummed her fingers on the datapad. “But figuring out what files they were trying to hide after the break in? Which ones actually had something to do with it? That took detective work. And _stealth._ Like the hacking equivalent of breaking into Central Command, because that stuff was guarded. _Heavily.”_ She poked his chest, grinning smugly. “So doing all that digging and stealing and not getting caught? Hell yeah, I deserve a few minutes of gloating.”

Al held up his hands placatingly, even as he grinned and nudged her back. “Alright, alright, jeez. You did a great job, you’re a fantastic hacker, blah-blah-blah.”

“Mechanic _and_ hacker and the best big sister _ever,”_ she sniffed, “but acceptable. Now go on, open your package.” She grinned up at him, even as her smile faltered slightly. “It’s…it’s not pretty, Al. Not at all.”

He grimaced as he flipped open the files, lines of code solidifying into words he could understand. “Didn’t expect it to be.” Whatever had reduced his brother to—to _that,_ that shell of a person in the Flame Alchemist’s arms, that vessel for a power greater than him, whose wail sounded more like an animal in distress than a real person crying out—couldn’t be pretty, or mild, or even tolerable. It was going to be awful and gruesome and he knew that the anger burning bright in his chest right now would only get worse, but he had to push through. Had to. His big brother needed him, even if he didn’t remember it yet.

And…and he needed his big brother back, too. For better or worse.

Winry shook her head, resting her forehead against her palms with a sigh. “No, it’s—it’s worse than you think. And I know you’re expecting the worst, that’s what you _do,_ that’s what you’ve always been, you plan for everything—but they…what they did, Al, I…” She shook her head again and Al glanced up at her worriedly as electric-blue eyes blinked out at him from under soft bangs. “It’s so far beyond inhumane,” she muttered, hunching her shoulders. “So, so far. I don’t…I don’t even know if there’s any coming back from something like that. Ever.”

His hands stilled over the floating images at that, eyes fixing momentarily on his older sister as she stared down at her hands, her gaze seeming very far away. He liked to think of himself as a pretty optimistic person, and he had no shortage of hope and passion, but—well, he was the mastermind behind their little schemes, even back when they were little kids. And as optimistic as he was, he did usually end up having to plan for the worst, had to make contingency plans backwards and forwards and upside-down in order to ensure that he and Winry and the Rockbells would be safe no matter what they had to do.

But Winry—Winry was always the confident one. The smooth-talker, the distraction and the secret weapon all in one, clever and vicious and striking right at the heart of the enemy in ways they never saw coming. Winry always believed they’d make it out okay. Winry, no matter what she’d seen in her little recon-missions, had always had complete and utter faith in their dream. She was his rock—the one that kept him grounded and focused and supported him through it all.

If she was saying that they might not be able to help Ed—somehow, some way, whatever it _took—_ then it had to be…worse. So much worse than he’d ever anticipated, ever planned for. Ever imagined. A shudder ran through his body, hands trembling as he debated uncurling them, debated _looking_ at all.

 _He’s hurt. He’s hurt bad._ That much, Al had known from the second he’d seen the footage. But—

_Brother, what did they do to you?_

“I—I have to read it,” he managed after a moment, squeezing his eyes shut and opening them again, willing back the urge to cry. _Save the tears—for him. For when you’re done. Get through the reading and then—and then you’ll know what to do. You have to._ Because if he didn’t know, if he couldn’t figure it out, then his brother—he might never see his brother again. “For him. He deserves—he deserves it.” _I can’t be a coward and run away from this—from the truth. Not when he’s so close._

Winry nodded in silent understanding and reached out, squeezing his hand. He squeezed back, comforted by the pulse of blood under the skin, the steady heartbeat that never faltered. His sister. His rock. Because if Ed was the dream he was trying to reach, Winry would always be the friend and partner and shield backing him up the whole way there. Her heartbeat had been there from the moment his Gift developed.

He hoped that it wouldn’t stop beating—not anytime soon.

Al took a deep breath, and started reading through the files. Flipping through the images. Looking over every last goddamn word, every horrible number, everything that had kept his brother imprisoned for _eleven years._

 _Project Catalyst._ A weapon. An _it._ An object. They didn’t even give Ed a name, he had a _number. 3-10. The third of October._ He remembered that day, remembered screaming and flashes of red and white and gold, his mother’s voice and his brother crying out in fear, begging his own Gift to stop hurting him, to stop hurting them. _A joke._ They made a joke out of the day they captured him—the day Edward Elric had become 3-10, had become a murderer, had gone from human to object. They’d named him for the worst day of his life.

That alone tore open some deep, aching wound in his chest.

And the rest…

 _Number 3-10 is responding well to the serum._ Sedatives, power-boosters, inhibitors, just enough nutrients to survive. Things designed to make his power too-much and his mind too-little to handle it, until staying in that box was all he _could_ handle. Learned helplessness without the learning. All they had to do was keep him trapped long enough for it to take effect, and then…then he wouldn’t even want to leave. Perfect. Twisted. _Wrong._

 _Number 3-10 is showing an extraordinary well of power. Data and DNA extraction successful. Continued basis approved by Fuhrer Bradley, TN WRATH._ Proof—direct proof that the government, that the man that ran Amestris was involved in the torture of _a child_ (it was dated seven years ago, they had started sucking Ed’s blood out of his body when he was _eight years old),_ but Al didn’t care about that, his hands shaking as he flipped through the images—his brother floating in that glass cage, suspended by wires and a gentle, protective shield of his own power. _Eight years old._ There was no baby fat on his face, not like Al had when he was eight; his cheeks were hollow, his eyes empty as he floated and golden hair swirled slowly in a nonexistent breeze.

Empty. Empty of everything—pain, fear, happiness, comfort. Like a vessel of power rather than a person who that power belonged to—who that power was Gifted to. As though Ed was just the human husk to contain that force within him, and everything else, all the things that Al could barely remember but clung to fiercely because _he’s my big brother, and this is all I have left of him,_ didn’t matter. As though _Ed_ didn’t matter.

Ed. 3-10. Project Catalyst.

_Project Catalyst proceeding well. Artificials developing nicely. Further extraction suggested, but denied by NEFAS Soldier GREED._

Artificials.

Artificial humans. _More_ of them, the file phrased it, which meant some had already been developed, or attempted, or _something—_ and they were using Ed to make more of them. Harvesting his power, his blood, his tissue, his _everything_ to develop these—these _things._ He couldn’t look at them, his vision blurring as he clutched the datapad and curled up, gaze blank as he stared up at the words, each one of them damning his brother _._ His whole body was shaking now, his breath coming in ragged bursts as he read and read and read. _3-10, Catalyst, Artificials. 3-10, Catalyst, Artificials. 3-10, Catalyst, Artificials._

And the pictures—

Gods, the pictures.

Every image was worse than the last—schematics of ways to make the containment chamber more efficient to better harvest 3-10 (Ed, Ed, _Ed, BROTHER—)_ , diagrams of his brother’s DNA and how it differed from another telekinetic they had locked up, and the analyses of these _monsters_ rambling on about how very powerful it _(he’s a human, HE’S A PERSON,_ Al wanted to scream, but the unforgiving words never changed) was and how lucky they were to find it—as if it, as if _he_ wasn’t a _person,_ wasn’t a traumatized child stolen from his family and used to power weapons and create serums and make whatever these—these Artificials were.

Worst of all were the ones of Ed, almost uncountable. Hours and hours of security footage, monitoring his vitals and the slightest change in position—not that there really were many. Barely any changes, except for him growing the slightest bit taller, the light in his eyes fading just a little bit more. Al couldn’t help thinking of the pictures the Rockbells had taken of him and Winry throughout the years, every single one of them—couldn’t help matching it up to _these._ The ones of him playing in the sandbox on a playground when he was five to the pictures of a blank-faced six-year-old with tears sliding down hollow cheeks. The ones of him the morning of his first day of middle school, with a new backpack and a bright smile to the thirteen-year-old with empty, glowing eyes and trembling hands. Anything. Everything.

The datapad slipped from numb fingers, hitting Winry’s mattress with a quiet thud. With a wave of her hand, Winry shut it off. Al barely saw the lights wink out, his body shuddering as he stared at nothing, seeing only those blank eyes and the face of the brother he loved slowly falling apart.

He hadn’t been used as a soldier, or even a weapon in the traditional sense. Al might have taken it better if they had brainwashed him like that, because at least—at least it meant he was still a person in their eyes, to some degree. Not a large one, but—but it was better than becoming a battery. Than being used like _this,_ held in a box and kept in a fog of _nothing_ until you couldn’t remember who or what or where you were.

“Al?” Winry whispered, and a gentle hand squeezed his shoulder. He choked on a sob, and then another, and another—

And then he was crying.

He was crying, and he couldn’t stop it because his brother had been hurt like _that_ while Al got a normal life, a normal childhood, because he’d failed him so many ways he could barely articulate them, because he didn’t know if his big brother would even remember him, even know him, because—

Because some teeny-tiny part of him still wanted to believe there were heroes in the world, and all he’d gotten was more proof that the heroes were the bad guys and his big brother had been hurt by them. That the so-called villains were still such unknowns, and he didn’t know what to do about them, how to get his brother back, how to do anything.

_I have to find you._

Al held on to his sister and cried for his brother, and made himself a promise.

_I have to find the Cabal._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A n g s t ~ and ooooh, Al and Winry are about to go looking for the Cabal now! Our two sets of heroes are about to collide, and it's going to be so much fun--for me! Thanks for reading! I hope you guys are all staying safe during the pandemic, and hopefully this update manages to lift your spirits a tiny bit <3 Leave a comment or a kudos if you enjoyed it, and I'll see you in two weeks!


	10. sparks and gadgets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy Mustang ponders progress, Catalyst's growth--and finds out a little more about his past.
> 
> And by a little, he means a lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm asking you to donate whatever you can to [The George Floyd Memorial Fund](https://www.gofundme.com/f/georgefloyd), [The Minnesota Freedom Fund](https://minnesotafreedomfund.org/), and [The Justice For Breonna Taylor Fundraiser and Petition](https://www.change.org/p/andy-beshear-justice-for-breonna-taylor). Call 502-735-1784 to be connected to a hotline that will guide you through Breonna's case and connect you to city and state officials that can help hold her murderers accountable. You can also text FLOYD to 55156 or JUSTICE to 668366 to sign petitions. Look for black-owned businesses in your area to support, and do whatever you can to help in this fight. Every voice, no matter how small, can help do something great.
> 
> In other news, chapters might be coming a bit more slowly due to me getting back to work! My workplace has finally reopened for takeout only, and I'm working hard to be able to support myself and my writing further <3 Hope you enjoy!

As someone leading a seven-person (eight-person, if you counted Catalyst, whose simple existence outside of the Nefas was an act of resistance) effort to overthrow a government that had its people so effectively brainwashed that _objection_ was taken as _villainy,_ Roy had gotten used to celebrating small victories. Though he wished sometimes that he could just burn Amestris down and rebuild it anew (and it would certainly be quicker and cleaner, some perpetually-irritated part of him thought grumpily), that would result in the deaths of people—innocent people, who had been duped by a system they didn’t realize was taking advantage of them. Not all of them were _good,_ but ending the world in fire was…not a good decision in and of itself.

Not that he didn’t have the power to, of course. But if he did that, the world wouldn’t see him as the hero of the story (not that he was a hero—not that he really believed in heroes), but as a monster. Hell, it might only increase support for the Nefas among the survivors—and Roy had killed enough for those monsters before.

Had killed so, so many people—

And that meant he couldn’t burn down the country. He had to tear down the government, and rebuild it into what he’d believed Amestris was as a kid. And so the Cabal stole resources, information, took down the corrupt, ran interference on their attempts to keep control. It was slow going, but it was _something._ Every step forward was _something._

He’d come to take the same sort of approach when it came to Catalyst. No matter how little things seemed to have changed, there still _was_ change. He was moving forward, slowly but surely. Recovering bit by painstaking bit, and Roy kept track of all those little victories the same way he’d kept track of the Cabal’s forward progress. Or…well, not entirely the same way. Hughes had, after hearing what he’d had in mind, insisted that _ledgers are too depressing for this sort of thing, Roy, and you need to give him something he can understand!_

So now Catalyst had a sticker chart.

Everyone pitched in a bit with the designing and explaining to Catalyst (Havoc admitted he nearly cried when the kid asked what a sticker was, wide-eyed and bewildered, and Roy had to leave the room before he let his rage at the Nefas show too much) and now it hung in a place of honor in the kid’s room, right above the soft, fawn-colored loveseat and carefully laminated. Sheets of stickers hung next to it in a little wall-clinging basket that Fuery and Breda had helped build, and Riza and Falman had picked out the theme of the chart itself, making the paper look like it was covered in flowers except for the little sticker-slots. Catalyst himself had chosen the types of stickers—pretty little stars and designs of planets.

It was one of Roy’s proudest achievements, not that he would ever admit it. Catalyst, though, had no such qualms, lighting up every time one of them said he could add a sticker to the chart. They were often for things that would seem small to most people—eating three meals a day, asking for help with something, walking up the stairs (holding that giant cat stuffed animal, affectionately named “Cat”, which was short for Catherine the Great—Catalyst had shown a surprising interest in the historical figures of the Pre-Gift Age, which Roy thought was _adorable,_ he’d have to look up some of those old musical tracks or holoscreen adaptations so the kid could understand them a little better)—but for Catalyst, they were _giant_ steps, especially for that trembling, broken little shell he’d been when Roy had first rescued him.

The sticker-chart’s reward, of course (because it had to be working toward a reward, Hughes had said, you couldn’t just give him the chart and nothing to show for it), had been picked out by Hughes as well—a dinosaur stuffed animal even bigger than Catherine the Great, which was frankly more the size of a beanbag chair than a stuffed animal Catalyst could actually carry around. Still, the kid had lit up when he saw the picture of the plushie (though he didn’t seem to realize it was actually meant _for him)_ , and it was hanging up beside the chart and the sticker pocket. Roy had already resigned himself to getting the damn thing sooner rather than later, because everyone (himself included) was very generous with sticker-worthy accomplishments, and Catalyst’s joy at those little accomplishments was worth every penny and every inch of lost space.

Hughes, of course, had been absolutely delighted when Catalyst had immediately taken to the chart, and Roy—well, Roy was maybe a bit jealous, because Catalyst was _his kid_ (sort of) and he wanted to make him feel that kind of happiness, that sort of safety. Despite the stupid jealousy, though, he couldn’t be that upset over it. Catalyst was _improving_ with something to strive for, even if that “something” was a giant stuffed dinosaur and the key to winning it was eating a full meal or using his Gift to lift a pencil.

And it was _helping,_ especially with his Gift. Every little task they encouraged him to use it with—pulling a tray of cookies out of the oven, organizing his crayons (of which he was _very_ fond, especially now that Riza was helping him learn ), picking out which book he wanted to read that night—helped him gain a little more confidence, made his control a little steadier. The mufflers were still on, but the fact that Catalyst was improving at all with something he was so terrified of was a clear sign of forward progress—which, given how the world was taking the Cabal’s latest “attack” (as though they hadn’t saved a child from a _cage),_ was something Roy sorely needed to see.

This was working. He was getting better. They were _helping._

It was almost enough to make him ignore how much the Nefas were doubling down on their propaganda—but the reports from aboveground were not looking good. Not only that, but the hacker that had shut down all the information on Project Catalyst hadn’t stopped there. Fuery had reported yesterday evening that they were piercing the layers of security they’d so painstakingly built, peeling them off as if it were _nothing._ He and Havoc had pulled an all-nighter, the empath keeping the technopath’s exhaustion at bay as long as he could as Fuery tried to sweet-talk the coding into rebuilding itself, but it didn’t—as if forced to stay pulled apart.

A technokinetic—there was a powerful technokinetic gunning for them, likely gunning for _Catalyst,_ and Roy had stationed himself in the server room as soon as Riza hauled Fuery and Havoc out of it. Those two were getting some much-needed rest, and…well, everything had been backed up. He was just here to shut it all down if the hacker got through and proved to be malicious (and he had every expectation that they would be). He was passable with technology, but nothing he did would stop this person from getting in. All he could do was save the data and block them out as much as he could with his limited knowledge.

He hoped that was enough. He hoped something, at least, was enough. He’d been fighting an uphill battle for the better part of his life, but it would be nice to have just… _one thing_ that worked out in his team’s favor. One thing.

A _ding_ from the computer made him open his eyes, and he pushed himself up from his slumped position with a groan. His eyes scanned the screen, waiting with bated breath for warnings to pop up, alarm bells to ring, for something to _happen—_

But instead, a small chat-box appeared on the screen. Roy blinked in confusion as the familiar flickering dots indicating someone mid-response popped up, tilting his head slightly. _A diversion? Or are they actually trying to communicate? Is this even an attempt at communication—what the hell is going on?_

Another ding, and a message popped up—a little wrench icon next to it, with _Mech_ written in neat black letters. Roy blinked in surprise, before squinting at it. After a moment of trying to figure it out (he didn’t need glasses, he _didn’t,_ goddamnit, he was only thirty years old and his vision wasn’t _bad),_ he relented with a quiet huff and enlarged the chat window, zooming in on the message.

_Mech: @Cabal, u there?_

_Mech: need to talk to u guys_

_Mech: don’t care who, just somebody_

_Mech: someone who knows about the Nefas_

Roy arched his eyebrows as the person on the other end—the technokinetic, the _hacker,_ he reminded himself, a hacker dangerous enough to rip through all their defenses like paper, who was no doubt deadly despite possibly being sympathetic to their cause—stopped typing, clearly waiting for a response. _Do I? Don’t I?_

If they were lying, responding might result in the destruction of all the work they’d done so far. But if they were telling the truth…

Another message popped up, and he froze.

_Mech: I can see u, flame_

_Mech: u need better defenses on these cameras, btw, when byte comes back let him know that I have some ideas_

_Mech: but srsly dude i gotta talk to u_

Huh. Well, shit. He grimaced as he set his fingers on the keyboard, typing out a quick response. _If they have eyes on us, they know where we are. Which means if they don’t like what I say…_

_Flame: not to be an overdone cliché, but why should i trust you, mr strange hacker_

_Mech: okay, rude_

_Mech: it’s MRS strange hacker tyvm_

_Mech: and honestly? don’t expect u to_

_Mech: don’t trust u guys either_

_Mech: but i trust u more than THEM yknow_

A laugh was startled out of him at the first two comments, before he sobered at the last messages that came through. He understood that all-too well—it was how the Cabal had been built. Those disillusioned with the Nefas, those who had been failed by them, the ones with stories of villains about people whose legacies seemed to be heroic. He had gotten to as many as he could—found as many as he could, and even then it was only a handful, their forces numbering in the single digits. The rest had disappeared, or died, or (he suspected) worse.

_Flame: I get it_

_Flame: but it must be something drastic if you’re reaching out to us_

_Flame: we aren’t exactly heroes here_

_Mech: I don’t believe in heroes_

_Mech: the heroes took my best friend away_

_Mech: you’re the ones who got him out_

He moved to type—

And then froze.

_They took my best friend away._

_You got him out._

She couldn’t mean… _him._ Couldn’t mean his Catalyst, could she? Did she? But that was the only case of a “rescue” (not that the world was calling it that) recent enough for her to be reaching out _now._ Which meant—which meant Catalyst wasn’t alone. He had _people_ out there. Or—well, one person, but it was more than they’d ever hoped to find.

_Focus,_ he reminded himself. They still couldn’t necessarily trust this person. No matter how sincere they seemed, it could always be a trap.

_Flame: Catalyst_

_Flame: wasn’t aware they were reporting his existence now_

_Mech: oh, they’re not_

_Mech: still going on about “research” and “vital intelligence”_

_Mech: as if they didn’t_

_Mech: lock him_

_Mech: up_

The screen glitched out a bit, and Roy leaned back in alarm, worried that his response had set something off, before pausing as a new name popped up on the screen.

_Polaris: sorry about that_

_Polaris: we’ve been looking for him for a long time_

_Polaris: they told us he was dead, so finding this was a big deal_

_Polaris: and we figured since you were the last people seen with him, you might still have him_

_Flame: and you are?_

_Polaris: al_

_Polaris: alphonse elric_

_Mech: al_

_Polaris: win, I’m going in full transparency or not at all_

_Polaris: they tortured my brother for eleven years_

_Polaris: I don’t know if he even remembers me_

_Polaris: if this is what it takes to find him, I’ll do whatever it takes_

_Mech: …_

_Mech: point_

_Mech: winry Rockbell_

_Mech: run a background check if you have to_

_Mech: everything will check out_

Alphonse Elric. Winry Rockbell.

Winry— _Al._

Al, the name Catalyst’s mind wailed along with his mother’s when he woke from nightmares. Al, who he cried into Roy’s arms about failing to protect. Al, who Roy had assumed had died along with Catalyst’s mother in whatever incident resulted in his capture.

Alphonse Elric, who a quick search showed was alive and well, whose name cropped up in a Risembool headline from over a decade ago naming him as the sole survivor in a Gift-related incident that killed Trisha Elric, his mother…and Edward Elric, his older brother.

Edward Elric, whose body was never found. Edward Elric, whose photo in the paper had the same gold eyes and blonde hair as Catalyst. Edward Elric, who had a carefree smile on his face and baby fat on his cheeks—whose eyes weren’t yet hollow and frightened, whose face wasn’t scared with over a decade of agony. Edward Elric, before he’d been Catalyst.

Maybe it was a trick. But Roy wasn’t about to let his only lead go.

_Flame: you were right_

_Flame: it does check out_

_Flame: and catalyst is okay_

_Flame: we didn’t have any information beyond the base files and his number_

_Flame: so we named him after the project_

_Flame: I believe you just gave me his real name, though_

_Mech: we have the deep files_

_Mech: or i do anyways_

_Polaris: and yeah_

_Polaris: his name is edward elric_

_Polaris: and he’s my big brother_

Shit. _Shit._ They’d just gotten hacked by a fifteen year old—who had also cracked the Nefas’s deepest servers. And they’d discovered Catalyst’s— _Ed, he has a name, his name is Ed—_ real name, his past, his _people._

He’d get in so much trouble with Riza for this, but…

_Flame: how soon can you two get into east city?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE SIBLINGS ARE MEETING THE CABAL AT LAST! I was so excited to get to this part, you don't even know. It was so much fun to write the chat portion, honestly, Winry is just a little ball of sass and poor Al just wants to see his brother again. Fortunately for them, adoption into the Cabal family is imminent ;)
> 
> I've also opened up donation commissions! Basically, if you DM donation receipts from organizations such as:  
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> i will write a one-shot for you in any of the following fandoms  
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> 
> Thanks for reading! Leave a comment and/or a kudos if you enjoyed it, and I'll see you in two weeks!


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